


And We're Still Coming Home

by rivlee



Series: OT3 'verse [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, First Kiss, Identity Issues, M/M, Other, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1765063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's view on events during <i>I Get By (With a Little Help)</i>. Or rather the long and winding tale of how Bucky decides to plant some roots with the help of Sam, Steve, Natasha, and his own support network.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of discussion and experience of PTSD in this fic, so please proceed with caution. Title from _Casting Lines_ by Jack's Mannequin.

The house had a manicured lawn and brightly colored birdhouses and flower boxes. The backyard could’ve fit inside Pierce’s driveway, but it was obviously a well-loved home from the chalk drawings on the walkway to the small American and POW/MIA flags hanging in the tiny garden. Bucky hadn’t been by the house in weeks, not since meeting Steve in that diner for the first time, but the only thing that had changed was the welcome mat.

Bucky checked the perimeter for any reporters, mercenaries, or undercover agents. It was quiet and the streets were mostly empty for early afternoon. Kids were still in school after all, and this was the suburbs. Not the best neighborhood money could buy, but Bucky supposed it was better than living in an apartment and dealing with the cramping of city life.

Everyone must’ve been at work or on errands, no one out pruning the roses or taking a stroll. Bucky was thankful for that small mercy. No one was there to see the drops of blood he left on the pavement and he wasn’t in the mood for strangers or questions. Bucky approached the doorstep, nudged over the little fake rock Steve had said hid a key, and opened the door. He put in the alarm code Steve had given him and wondered at the significance of _1972_. 

He closed the door casually in case the house was under surveillance. No need to make this look rushed or out of the ordinary. He reset the alarm and turned from the keypad to take in the floor plan. Average height ceilings; central air; the sliding glass door that led to the back could be seen from the kitchen, but not the living room. He saw the glint of sunlight on mirrored glass and started towards a bathroom. He stopped short at the carpet and frowned at his boots. Mud and beige carpet—couldn’t have that; couldn’t leave proof. He toed them off and dropped his bag before griping his side, trying not to let any stray drops of blood hit the floor. Directions of the blood drops could show his path. He knew he wasn’t supposed to leave any evidence.

The bathroom had a military grade first aid kit shoved under the sink. Bucky rooted around until he found gauze and medical tape. He searched for something to wash out the wound and shrugged when all he could find were soft, blue hand towels. They matched the décor and would be missed if he threw them away. He didn’t want to leave something that obvious in case he decided to run. He pulled off his shirt instead, soaked an end with water and hand soap, and cleaned the wound. 

The bleeding wasn’t exactly part of his plan. Someone had followed him back to his room in Arlington and had some words to say with their fists. They got in a lucky stab and some punches, but before they could even finish their _Hail!_ he’d knocked their head into the wall. He’d left some extra money under the mattress for his landlord to help pay for the clean-up and damages.

His mission to stay underground wasn’t turning out to be a resounding success.

He twisted, turned, and taped on the gauze. He paused to look at himself in the mirror. Haircut didn’t look too bad. No bruises on his face. He didn’t exactly have time for a decent shave, but he didn’t think Sam Wilson would be offended by it. He wrung out his shirt, made sure any traces of blood where gone from the white basin of the sink, and gathered his trash. 

He walked back to the kitchen and paused to decide the next step in his plan of action. He checked the perimeter again. There was a side door presumably leading to the garage. He propped it open and found a large trash bin next to door. He dropped his trash and paused as he saw the workbench tucked into the corner. One of Steve’s paintings was propped next to it. He remembered the style, even before he’d flipped through the large volume at the library entitled _Captain America’s Collected Illustrations_.

It was a comfort to see it again in person. Too tempting and distracting now though. He couldn’t let it pull him away from his mission objective. 

He closed the door to the garage and went back to his duffle. He pulled out another shirt, his clean pair of boots, and a ragged towel he’d swiped from a motel. He checked the kitchen for something to wrap around his muddy boots. Wilson had a whole collection of plastic bags stuffed between his refrigerator and the wall. Bucky grabbed and stowed his boots carefully in his bag. He had to be ready just in case. 

He checked the clock. Two hours until Wilson’s usual return time. Bucky searched through the cabinets until he found a glass. He turned to the tap but remembered the warnings one of the other vets had told him about unfiltered water. Bucky thought it was bullshit, but who the hell knew what could’ve been dumped in Wilson’s local water supply if someone was looking for Steve. He opened the fridge and found a water pitcher. He poured himself a glass and eyed the kitchen table before choosing the living room instead. There were coasters on the coffee table, so it probably wouldn’t be a sin to sit and sip there. 

He placed the old towel over the seat cushion, sat down, and waited.

****

************

Sam Wilson didn’t expect James Buchanan Barnes; he didn’t even expect Bucky. He expected a wounded warrior and man who possibly didn’t even know himself. He expected the barely held together pieces of a guy who tried to kill him once. It was all too clear on his face and in his body language that he didn’t expect Bucky to remember anything. He even told Bucky as much, and wasn’t that a fucking surprise. Honesty was a rare thing.

He was frighteningly easy to talk to.

It was different from talking to Father Patel, or the shrink volunteers, or the vets he met for a cup of coffee, or even the kids who shelved the books in the library and gave him reading suggestions. It was even different than talking to Steve, which felt good and familiar before it stuttered off course and landed somewhere in that ditch of the gaping years between them and the variance of memories.

He liked that phrase. Read in one of the books the kids gave him about amnesia and recovery. 

Bucky knew Steve would never pressure him, would never make him feel like Bucky had to be everything he once was, and Bucky knew he had the power of his own choice to be who he wanted. Steve would be there regardless. He’d made that clear in his phone calls and letters, and that was its own comfort. Bucky still couldn’t process just _how_ someone could have so much blind faith in him; especially when he didn’t even know who he’d turn out to be in the end. 

It’d been a long time since he knew good. Even if he still questioned fact and fiction some days, he knew that Steve’s faith was a solid truth. 

Steve’s faith in him was a gift, but it still weighed heavy on Bucky’s mind—the idea that that faith could cost them both. Steve had firsthand knowledge now of how stifling it was to be who people expected, rather than who you really were. He knew Bucky had a dark side—always had—but Steve didn’t have the cleanest hands in the world either. He’d never push Bucky, but the anticipation would always be there and Bucky didn’t want him to witness any of his own failures.

Seventy years since they last lived together, two returns from the dead, and they were still trying to protect, support, defend, and make each other proud. 

Sam Wilson though—Sam was just easier in a few significant ways. His lack of familiarity with James Barnes circa 1943 made him a safe harbor. He lacked general expectations, and when he looked at Bucky it was clear that he wasn’t trying to find the remnants of someone else’s ghost. He just had a presence and a smile that made you want to sit down and talk. Part of that would always put Bucky on edge since he hadn’t exactly basked in the milk of human kindness for the better part of a century. The past half-year had taught him something though: it was okay to reach out if you needed it. There wasn’t any shame there. 

Whether or not Bucky deserved it? He still had to wrestle with that one.

Sam was good for another reason too. He didn’t seem overly bothered by the possibility of Bucky bleeding on his couch. He looked more concerned for Bucky than the upholstery. Bucky had to like a guy who cared more about the human factor rather than the cost to his valuables. Those were the kind of people little Jimmy Barnes always liked, and the kind this Bucky was starting to like too. 

After the credits rolled on the movie (not too bad; he liked that dance number on the desk top), Sam gave him a long look.

“Now can we check to see if you’re going to bleed out?”

“You know I’m not, or you would’ve done something about it by now. Or I would’ve. I don’t think I’d like to die slow again.”

“Can’t say I blame you there,” Sam said. He stood up and stretched, long arms reaching up towards the ceiling. “At least let me see if you need stitches.”

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?” Bucky asked. 

“Nope,” Sam said.

Bucky figured as much. “Fine.”

He followed Sam into the kitchen and lingered near the table as Sam turned on the overhead lights and cleared out counter space near the sink. 

“Not the best exam table in the world, but I’ve worked with worse,” Sam said. He patted the counter top. “Hop up, pull a chair over, or lean. Whatever hurts less. Don’t be a hero about it and try that stoic bullshit. It’ll be much easier for both of us if you just let me do what I do best.”

“Talk?” Bucky asked.

“Kiss my ass, Barnes,” Sam said with a smile.

Bucky pulled one of the chairs over and sat down. 

“Can you lift the arm on that side without pain?” Sam asked.

Bucky tried and immediately regretted the decision. He didn’t allow himself to flinch. He just needed to prepare himself and bear it out. He’d had worse.

“Give me a moment. I’ll be fine.”

Sam crouched down so he was close, within Bucky’s line of vision, but not close enough to be crowding. 

“Hey, man, let me help you there. Between the two of us we can try to pull it off or I can cut it.”

“Cut it,” Bucky said. “I have another.”

“Another? Just _another_?” Sam asked. “Yeah, we’re going shopping tomorrow.”

“I’m good.”

“And I think we need to expand your fashion color palate beyond basic black.”

“But it hides the blood so much easier.” Bucky bit the inside of his lip at the look on Sam’s face. “Sorry. I had to.”

Sam just rolled his eyes and muttered something too low for Bucky to hear. He walked over to the counter under the sink and pulled out a massive first aid kit. He then walked over to a drawer next to the side-door and pulled out a pair of scissors. He was relaxed in his movements, obviously not overly concerned with the bleeding assassin perched on a chair who tried to kill him once or twice. Sam had shown Bucky various signs of trust throughout the night, but the one right now, with Bucky next to a block full of steak knives? That spoke volumes. 

He wondered if he should be insulted that Sam so obviously didn’t view him as a viable threat—or at least not without proper provocation. Instead he just felt pleased. Steve obviously still truly held his unshakeable faith in who Bucky was—and could be in time—if Sam was this willing to trust him.

“You ready?” Sam asked as he laid out his supplies.

Bucky wasn’t tied down. No one here was going to force him into restraints. He could get out if he needed to. He took a deep breath.

Another.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“I’m going to pull the bottom of your shirt towards me so the blades of the scissors don’t get too close to your skin. If you need me to stop and step back, just let me know, okay?”

“Sure,” Bucky said. 

Sam was deliberately careful as he pulled the cut pieces of fabric off. Bucky could tell in the way he concentrated on slow, steady movements. He was used to doing his much faster; it was obvious in the slight twitch of his hands between one step and the next. 

“At least you took care of the wound somewhat,” Sam said. He pulled back, put down the scissors, and tugged on a pair of clear gloves. He looked up at Bucky—calm, assessing. “I’m going to pull the tape off now, okay? You can take a deep breath if you need to.”

“Just do it.”

Sam pulled the tape off fast, but he was slower with the gauze. His movements were still cautious, but efficient. He made sure never to block Bucky’s view of the door. It was the smallest of gestures that Bucky appreciated more than a warm meal. 

“How many times have you done something like this?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “Years of my life, man. They try their best to prepare you in training, but you never really get it until the first time you have to jump into hell. I’ll take a confused ghost assassin in my kitchen over trying to tie off an artery during a fire fight with RPGS and IEDs going off everywhere.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a bargain,” Bucky said.

Sam’s face went soft. “It has its rewards.” 

“You’ll have to tell me about those.”

“You stick around and you can see them for yourself,” Sam said. He frowned at the stab wound. “Think you’re definitely going to need stitches. The wound’s too jagged for skin glue. Is it okay if I touch you? I want to make sure something’s not ruptured or broken.”

Bucky felt his brow wrinkle and cursed. He hadn’t meant to show that much on his face. 

“I don’t have to,” Sam said. “But we should get this closed.”

“I’m not used to people asking permission,” Bucky said.

“Welcome to the brave new world,” Sam said.

“Do your worst.”

Sam grinned. “Even at my worst, Barnes, I’m better than you’ll ever have.”

“Considering the advances in modern medicine and lack of mind-wiping torture chairs in this room, I don’t doubt that.”

Sam froze.

“It’s a joke,” Bucky said. “Laugh with me so I don’t feel like the asshole bleeding on your kitchen floor.”

“You are the asshole bleeding on my kitchen floor though. You don’t get a laugh until you’ve earned it.”

Bucky already knew the reasons Steve liked Sam—loved him actually—from their quick phone conversations and a handful of meetings in run-down diners, but it was different spending time in Sam Wilson’s space. It was different seeing him work in his own home, handling Bucky like he’d handled countless wounded soldiers. He was all calm waters and deep depths, and Bucky appreciated the effort. He didn’t feel like he was drowning, or stifled, and while there was still an itch under his skin, it was the one he’d grown used to since the day the helicarriers went down.

Sam was careful and courteous, but he wasn’t handling Bucky like he was about to break.

“The bleeding’s mostly stopped, but we’ll definitely have to do stiches, Barnes. Sorry.”

“You got the stuff to do that? Not going to drag me to a hospital?”

“Don’t keep up my medic certification just so I can impress the boys and girls with my knowledge,” Sam said.

“Not even a little bit?” Bucky asked.

“Maybe a little bit, but don’t tell Steve.”

“You know, his mom was a nurse, right?”

“Yeah, he’s got a caretaker kink.” Sam winked at him. “Don’t think he didn’t tell me all about how you made sure he got food, medicine, shelter, and love all when he was that kid no one cared about. At least that’s the way he tells it.”

“Never did realize how many people loved him when he could’ve been blown over by a strong wind. He’s always been remarkable; don’t ever let him tell you otherwise.”

“You remember that?”

“It’s a hell of a lot more clear in my mind than half the shit those _authorized_ biographies have spouted about me.”

“So you didn’t sleep with a whole whorehouse worth in Paris?”

Bucky sucked some air between his teeth in response. “Don’t you got some work to do?”

Sam had his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he got to work. 

“And it was half a whorehouse in London,” Bucky said once Sam was finished. 

Sam’s shoulders shook even as he silently covered Bucky’s stitches. “Try not to pop them open.”

Sam’s eyes lingered on Bucky’s shoulder once he’d finished cleaning up the kitchen and putting everything back in its place.

“You can touch it if you want,” Bucky said.

Sam laughed. “I’m pretty sure I have to buy you a drink first,” he said. “Just wondering how you manage to hold the weight. If you ever need it to be checked out, I know a guy who could maybe help.”

“That sounds confident.”

“If T’Challa figured out how to make wings, I’m pretty sure he has some ideas about metal prosthetics. Just think about it,” Sam said. 

He handed Bucky a shirt before he went to bed. 

It smelled familiar, even if Bucky couldn’t quite place how yet.

*******************

Somewhere between midnight and two in the morning—after Bucky had paced the whole house and then walked around the whole property outside checking for threats—he used Sam’s phone to call Steve.

“Sam said he didn’t think you’d be able to sleep,” Steve greeted him with instead of an _hello_.

“Yeah, well, looks like I’m not the only one,” Bucky said. 

“Some of us hibernated for years.”

“And some of us were frozen in a completely different way. Couldn’t all be natural ice like you.”

Steve laughed, like Bucky knew he would. 

“You okay?” Steve asked. “I mean—Sam said something about stitches.”

“It’s nothing. Little bit of trouble I wasn’t prepared for.”

“I should’ve seen the other guy?” Steve asked.

“I had him ‘em on the ropes,” Bucky said. He shook his head as something scurried through his mind. “No, that’s not…I don’t know why I said that.”

“We’ve said it in the past,” Steve said, voice hushed. “Kind of a thing. A code. Meant everything was okay no matter how bad it looked.”

“That’s not in our biographies,” Bucky said.

“Never really thought it was anyone else’s business,” Steve said. 

“Nope,” Bucky agreed. “Good to know some things stayed private. Hard to believe when someone wrote and published their goddamned college thesis on the symbolism of my nickname. Do you even know how many kids were named James back then?”

“I do,” Steve said. The laugh was obvious in the light tone of his voice. He could hear a soft clicking sound on the other line.

“Am I boring you, Rogers?”

“Hardly,” Steve said. “I’m just trying to sketch out a mission plan for all the intel gathered today. Apparently I can’t be trusted with a laptop, so I’m on a pc. I hate when they all collectively forget I got this body thanks to technology decades ahead of its time. I’ve been off the ice for two years; I know how to use a computer. You asked a few confused questions about wireless radio versus wireless internet and everyone thinks you’re baffled by those newfangled automatic lights.”

There was something Bucky thought might’ve felt like laughter start in his stomach, but it faded quick as Bucky took a good look at his arm. 

“They call you the Man Out of Time. I suppose it fits both of us. I guess they don’t realize we’re both behind and ahead of this current period. Either way, I suppose we shouldn’t be here.”

“We are though,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “How about that?”


	2. Chapter 2

Sam’s bed was large, with an extra-firm mattress and more pillows than any person—or two in the case of Sam and Steve—needed. The sheets were standard cotton, Sam said they weren’t really a fancy thread count, but they were some of the softest Bucky had ever felt under his skin. When he slept—which wasn’t often—he preferred it in that bed. Not that he really slept even when he allowed himself the luxury. It was all the occasional drifting in and out of sleep. He didn’t dream, but he also didn’t have the memories and night terrors that plagued him when his body finally demanded a true, deep sleep. 

He knew his handlers had prided themselves on his resilience and Bucky had tested that more than a few times since he’d chosen freedom. He knew now just how long could he go without food or drink or sleep or light or dark. He knew now what he could endure when left on his own. That knowledge was a both a comfort and his own concealed weapon.

Truth be told he knew he’d gone soft here with a growing sense of something that could be contentment. Given a choice, he preferred the three square meals and the fluffy pillows and the white noise machine that imitated the sound of falling rain. He preferred the warmth of Sam’s body and the steady sound of his breathing, and the smell of toothpaste, body wash, sweat, and _him_ that wafted off his skin. It was never too silent or still with all that around him. It was a novel thing now, to lie down and sleep. He spent years being shut down—hibernating—in a vertical position, before they rebooted him like a fucking computer. 

He’d jokingly asked Sam to get him a _Have You Tried Turning It Off and On Again?_ t-shirt after they marathoned _The IT Crowd_ one night. Two weeks after that Sam had dropped a package in his lap as he sorted through the mail. Inside was a soft black t-shirt with the phrase in a stylized green font that Sam called retro. Bucky loved it. It was something _for_ him, that someone gave him without wanting anything too costly in return, and was his own. It was different from purchasing stuff out of necessity. Bucky still wrangled with whether he deserved the _wants_ versus the needs, but it was a gift, and it’d be rude to refuse. 

There was still that fear in the back of his mind. The knowledge about things being too good to be true. He still wondered about just what Sam would want when the time came for Bucky to pay his due. Steve had his own penance in terms of Bucky, and even if Bucky thought that was bullshit, he understood it. They were ‘till the end of the line anyway, as Steve put it; as Bucky had once said. Sam, though? He didn’t really have a reason. So Bucky just decided to ask one night as he loaded his plate down with spaghetti. 

“Problem with the food?” Sam asked. He looked at the spread of dishes before them. “It’s not because they’re turkey meatballs is it? I’m telling you, it’s better for you.”

“Last time I had spaghetti, I’m pretty sure the red sauce was ketchup, so that ain’t it. Just got a question is all.”

“So ask,” Sam said as he easily twirled some pasta around his fork. 

“Here’s the thing—when you’ve got that thousand-yard stare going on and some personal hygiene issues present while sorting through trash bins for food, some people reach out, and sometimes you have to take it, and sometimes they try to get you to talk, and sometimes you do. It wasn’t easy, but still easier than talking to anyone who knew anything about me—or who I used to be, or whatever version _that_ me was. I just wonder why you’re doing all of this. Don’t get me wrong, buddy. I care that you care, but I’m still wondering.”

Sam carefully put his fork down. He didn’t look at Bucky as if he felt betrayed. It seemed more like he’d been waiting for this question. 

“It wasn’t just because of Steve, or the fact I grew up with the legends of the Howling Commandos, and the story and struggle of Isaiah Bradley. It’s not because I grew up with a poster of you on my wall and figured I could help save my childhood hero. Fuck, Barnes, I’m lucky I can save myself most days.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job so far,” Bucky said.

Sam laughed. “Yeah, you’ve been here less than a month. Just wait. Hand to God truth time though. If I’d spotted you in the park, I would have given you my business card and offered names and connections for some help. I know what it is to need help, Buck. I know sometimes you don’t even think you can take it until someone offers it. I know what it is to feel you don’t deserve it. That you should be punished for your sins. I know getting help doesn’t really work until you admit you need it, but there’s still comfort of an outstretched hand. We got to take care of each other, man, because no one else is stepping up to the fucking plate.”

“You’re not too bad, Wilson,” Bucky said. 

“Neither are you, Barnes,” Sam said. 

Bucky looked up from his dinner, watched the way fork twirled in Sam’s fingers, and felt that old familiar tug of warmth.

“So you had a poster of me on your wall,” he said.

Sam smiled. “Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t _just_ you. I had Gabe Jones up there too. You looked good in your Howling Commando uniform though. Blue’s a nice color on you.”

“Well, Mr. Wilson, I never.”

He deserved it when Sam chucked a crust of bread at him.

****************

Natasha disapproved of everything he purchased. She dumped all but one of his burner phones, handed him a new one she’d acquired and a bag full of SIM cards. She drove him to the hardware store and hummed approval and glared dissent at his choices for Sam’s new locks. She dragged him to one of those fancy department stores and sat back with a gossip rag as she ordered him to try various bits of clothing on.

“You need to fit in,” she said. “You’ll draw attention to yourself if you keep bumbling through the sunny suburbs looking like the highly trained operative you obviously are from your clothing choices and gait.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked as he sorted through the pile of t-shirts she’d shoved at him. They were only supposed to take in three pieces of clothing, but Natasha had said something to the changing room attendant who’d let them bring in what felt like half the store. 

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Natasha said. She looked up from her magazine. “Steve’s a nice guy.”

“Don’t have to tell me that.”

“Sam’s a good one too,” she said. 

“He’s a saint,” Bucky agreed. He found a red shirt with the outline of a cartoon dog wearing sunglasses on it. It look like an image he’d seen somewhere before. 

“Oh, I don’t think he’s that saintly,” Natasha said. 

Bucky pulled the shirt on and turned to her for approval. She nodded and pulled out her cell phone with a grin.

“Smile, Snoopy.”

Bucky pulled off the shirt and put it in the keep pile. He dug through the casual clothes to the dress shirts and found a dark blue one. He slipped it on and ran a hand through his hair. He looked in the mirror and frowned at the disheveled sight he made.

“That’s a keeper,” Natasha said. She took another picture. 

“Do I want to know why you feel the need to document this?” he asked.

“Nope,” Natasha said. She tapped something on her screen. “Steve says you look very dashing, but to remember that you’re a…dead hoofer?”

Bucky grabbed at her phone. “Give that to me. Little punk obviously forgot he used to have two left feet and the rhythm of a slug.”

**************

Sam had nightmares. He cried out medical terms and words in Farsi, and orders to stay level and hold on tight. He tossed and turned and grew hot with sweat. He woke up with tears streaming down his cheeks and his voice choked off on a name that Bucky guessed was always going to be Riley.

Bucky knew better than to shake him or try to wake him. He didn’t even move, barely allowed himself to breath when it happened. He sat back and waited until Sam shook his head and his hands and tried to wipe the tears off his own face. It was only after that signal, the silent _all clear_ , Bucky would slip from the bed, get a glass of water from the kitchen and a washcloth from the linen closet, and put them on Sam’s nightstand. 

He didn’t touch him, or offer any platitudes, or grab the phone to call Steve or Natasha. He just waited. Sometimes Sam would talk. Sometimes he’d just keep his head low and ask if Bucky wanted to play cards. Sometimes he’d just get out of bed, say nothing, put on his shoes, and go for a late night run. Bucky always trailed after him on those nights, but he made enough noise to be obvious just in case Sam was stuck back in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever the hell the Air Force had shipped him. 

Tonight was different. Tonight the names hadn’t just been Riley.

“You know any songs, Buck?” Sam asked with a voice gone raw.

“There are a few I remember,” Bucky said. 

“Sing me one?”

Bucky started singing _As Time Goes By_ until Sam laughed.

“You’re an asshole,” Sam said.

Bucky felt his lips turn up in a smile. It felt nice. He continued on. 

“ _Moonlight and love songs are never out of date_.”

***************

It’s not that the world had gotten noisier—in many ways it was far quieter—but there was a certain overstimulation of all the senses just walking down a city street that anyone coming back from war or trauma or recovery would want to avoid.

It’s why Bucky went back to the museum so many times. The recorded voices of the exhibit pieces and the tourists always faded into white noise, but food and drinks, and flash photography weren’t allowed inside.

Some people entered the exhibit like they were going to church. Bucky half expected them kneel and cross themselves in front of Cap’s shield replica with the way they spoke in reverent whispers. He had a feeling this wasn’t the kind of pilgrimage Chaucer ever imagined.

Bucky stood back and watched those people in their almost worship and thought about the past. Of old wooden pews and fundraisers for repairs to the altar and Mass spoken in Latin rather than English. He studied the murals and thought of his first fall and wondered if Steve prayed to Mary for Bucky’s immortal soul at the hour of his death. God knew how many sins were on his soul even before he went to war. He never did get the Last Rites, and any grave of his would be empty, consecrated ground or not. Maybe the third time was a charm. Maybe this time it’d stick. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about his death again. 

He left the room, spared one last glance for the boy he used to be and the man war had made, and pushed past the crowds.

**************

The Winter Soldier’s training required him to be adept at all aspects of modern technology. Bucky hadn’t lost any of those skills; it was only the colloquialisms that referred to them where he’d fuck it all up. Sam’s nieces were the best instructors he had yet in explaining the latest terms and slang. They didn’t try to overcomplicate it or give textbook explanations. Aisha even offered to make him flashcards.

“There’s an app we could use, but Uncle Sammy ordered me to keep your metal fist away from his iPad,” she said. “Let me check the craft chest to see if we have any index cards left.”

If Bucky ever doubted that Sam trusted him, today would’ve firmly proved just how much he believed in Bucky. He’d left Bucky alone with his eldest niece while he went and picked the other two up from school. Aisha was eleven, already taller than Steve had been pre-serum, and old enough to know who he was both as Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier. She didn’t ever hesitate to meet his eyes or ask where he got his arm. She just tilted her head and told him she thought he’d be taller. 

Bucky was pretty certain one of the true wonders of the modern world was the Wilson family. 

“You didn’t burn my house down. Awesome,” Sam said when he returned. He had Alia and Alana hanging from his sides, all bright smiles and loud giggles. 

“Hey,” both Bucky and Aisha said.

“Aisha once tried to microwave a cell phone because YouTube is a horrible place, and you broke into my house and left no evidence.”

“I used a key and a security code,” Bucky said. 

“Can we go to CVS? I want to make flashcards for Mr. Bucky and we’re out,” Alana said.

Bucky frowned. “None of that _Mister_ crap. Bucky’s fine.”

“Uncle Sammy, Uncle Stevie, and Uncle Bucky,” Alana said with a smile.

Sam patted her head. “Funny. Okay, anyone who needs a bathroom break go now. I’m not going to stop the car unless it’s an emergency.”

“Or in case _Uncle_ Bucky decides to rip the steering wheel out again,” Aisha said. She winked at Bucky as she passed and made a face at her uncle. 

Bucky just covered his mouth and tried not to let out a truly undignified laugh.

**************

Lying was always easy. James Buchanan Bares had a glided tongue and the ability to get whatever he needed with a bright smile and some pretty words. Bucky lied to the best people in his life, even though he knew it was wrong. He lied then to protect his mother, Mrs. Rogers, Steve, and Mr. O’Reilly. He lied so no one asked where the money came from or how the food got in the house or where here got the new clothes, or how there was always enough for real medicine when Steve got sick. Bucky was proud then of how easy he could lie, and how everyone believed it.

Sergeant Barnes knew how to keep the truth quiet and not talk about being _tired_. They wouldn’t get him on battle fatigue and away from the line—there was no guarantee he’d get back to the 107th or Steve— so he lifted his chin and gave his best _aw, shucks it’s nothing_ and tried to bury it all. Bury the memory of Zola and chemicals being pumped into his body and questions asked until his name, rank, and serial number became an Our Father. He wanted nothing more than to forget back then. They always told him to be careful what he’d wished for.

According to the files he’d found on his programming, the Winter Soldier was supposedly incapable of lying to his handlers. He wasn’t programmed to be deceitful, just terminally effective. They never took into account the _human _factor of a human weapon.__

__These days Bucky was usually too mentally exhausted to lie for anything out of survival. He had too much to sort out in his head to keep up with his best fish tales. He was still trying to find out his own, real truth. So when Sam took him out to a tiny café, tucked him away into the corner, and gave him a pointed look until he ordered a soup and sandwich, Bucky only sort of feared it was a last meal._ _

__When he asked what was bothering him the most out of everything, Bucky took a full ten minutes to reply._ _

__“What’s a soldier worth without a war?” Bucky asked._ _

__Sam took a long sip of his ice tea before putting his glass back down. He rolled his lips as he thought of his answer, and Bucky was caught for a moment by the way they glistened. Sam tapped his fingers over Bucky’s metal arm, a rhythm of some song Bucky couldn’t recognize._ _

__“Show me _one_ person who has been through a war, declared or not, and I promise you, they’re still fighting it. It doesn’t end just because you come home.”_ _

__“I know that,” Bucky said._ _

__Sam quirked an eyebrow. “Do you? Then remember it. Remember you’re more than a weapon.”_ _

__“I’m not just a weapon,” Bucky intoned._ _

__Sam playfully kicked Bucky’s ankle. “I said _more than_. There’s no lying about what you can do, especially since I’m guessing that skill was inherent like Steve’s strategic mind.”_ _

__“The serum is supposed to bring out the best or worst in someone. What does the knock-off version pumping through mine veins mean? I didn’t grow almost a foot taller. Of course, I didn’t get a red skull either.”_ _

__“And you don’t turn into a green rage monster who accidentally destroyed my family’s home,” Sam said._ _

__“Banner, right?” Bucky asked. He vaguely recalled the file. He was never one of Bucky’s targets since they didn’t want to waste him on someone they weren’t yet sure how to terminate. Pierce had always been concerned about press coverage._ _

__“Yeah,” Sam said. “Nice guy from what I’m told, but kind of the one to blame for the rate of my aunt’s home owner’s insurance.”_ _

__Bucky winced. “Yeah, sorry about your car. Again.”_ _

__Sam waved him off. “I needed a new one anyway.”_ _

__Bucky wiped at the condensation on his water glass. “I don’t turn into a green rage monster either. I just survived, I guess. I was doing that before in foxholes in the middle of nowhere. I suppose that shit they pumped into me made my response time faster, better eyesight, increased healing factor, and calmer heart rate before my unconsented armor upgrade.”_ _

__He felt a ringing in his ears and took a deep breath. He looked up at Sam who looked frozen. He had paused mid-chew and it was clear he was trying to think of what to say next._ _

__“You should see your face right now,” Bucky said._ _

__Sam deliberately swallowed and wiped his mouth off with his napkin. “Fuck you, too.”_ _

__Bucky smiled even as he felt his pulse jump. “I keep telling ya, Wilson. Only if Steve says it’s okay.”_ _

____

**********

Bucky kind of loved game shows. He couldn’t explain it, but _Let’s Make a Deal_ and _The Price is Right_ were his favorites. _Wheel of Fortune_ could fuck right off, but he found _Jeopardy!_ and _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?_ kind of helpful for learning the pop culture trivia he’d missed during his years in and out of deep freeze.

Sam loved _Family Feud_ and showed Bucky how to tape it— _yes, even the re-runs Buck_ —on the cable box. They had a whole weekend tradition now: run in the morning, call Steve before breakfast, check for any hidden Natashas, eat, wash-up, and then plop their asses down for at least two hours of game show goodness. 

The afternoon was never planned, but this weekend Bucky could feel that itch under his skin that meant he needed to talk to someone. He just didn’t know who at this point. The volunteers at the shelter weren’t really cutting it anymore. He was restless and he couldn’t stay still. His body wasn’t listening to his internal orders to stop as his knee bounced and his fingers twitched.

“You need something, Bucky?” Sam asked. “It’s okay if you do.”

Bucky shrugged. “I need someone to listen to me spout off my war crimes before I choke on them. You think you can do that? You trying to save me or something, Wilson?”

“You pulled yourself out of the water, so biggest step belongs to you, Barnes.” Sam sprawled out on the couch, body open, and casually studied him. “I can’t treat you.”

“Why?” 

Sam shook his head and looked to the ceiling as if pleading with God and all his choirs of angels for mercy.

“Because even if I was a therapist or psychologist instead of a counselor, it would be completely unethical and unprofessional,” Sam said. “You tried to kill me once, and now you live in my house, eat my food, and sleep in my bed, not to mention your extremely co-dependent relationship with my partner. Don’t think I didn’t hear you two on the phone watching _Robin Hood: Men in Tights_ together.”

“Natasha said it was a required part of our modern re-education.” 

“She didn’t lie.” Sam turned his body towards Bucky. “I’m always going to be here to listen if you need it, never going turn that down, but it terms of guiding your recovery? I’ll give you some names and my honest opinion on their methods if you want me to do so.”

Doing so would me putting down roots. Taking that offer would me admitting that he wanted to stay. It didn’t scare Bucky nearly as much as it should have; didn’t make the sirens go off in his head. Sanctuary was a hell of a heady feeling. 

“You’re an actual good guy, Sam,” he said. “Didn’t think there were too many of those left in the world.”

“More than you’d think,” Sam said. “Best time to find them is when everything’s gone to shit.”

Bucky felt his lip twists at that sentiment. “My Superior Officers told me that back in the war—or rather my first war. I was scared shitless and frozen. No amount of training prepares you for what happens when the tanks are shooting at you along with guns. Nothing prepares you for that first realization of kill or be killed. Froze the first time, then never again, and look at me now. If who we really are is revealed best through adversity, then what does that say about me?”

“You’ve already recognized you’re a survivor, but do you want me to really answer that?”

“Yes,” Bucky murmured.

Sam shifted closer. He didn’t touch Bucky until Bucky allowed himself to lean into his space, and then there was a strong hand on his shoulder. It felt like a lifeline rather than an anchor.

“It says you got pulled off a table in an experimental work camp, got a chance to walk to freedom, and refused to leave an actual fiery death trap without your best friend. It says that even when you had more than enough plausible reasons to get a medical discharge and a ship back home, you stayed and fought. It says that even now you’re trying to seek understanding for what was done to you, and are contemplating penance for crimes you committed on orders you couldn’t do anything but obey.”

“Isn’t there always a choice?”

“Not when the ability to make a choice is completely taken from you,” Sam said. He patted Bucky’s knee. “I ain’t going to call you evil, man, so you might as well stop trying to goad me into it.”

“Not exactly human though, am I?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah, well, what do you call Steve? Never mind the fact that the regular old humans do some really evil shit.”

“So, if I was the one who shot someone close to you? A family member, a friend, or a personal idol? Malcom X, maybe? The conspiracy theorists on Fox News are currently putting all the most famous assassinations of the past century on the Winter Soldier’s head. Apparently I took out John Lennon too.”

“Some people always need to look for monsters under the bed, rather than admitting the person walking down the street is capable of doing something horrific.”

“I’m both neighbor and monster, and I’ve done horrible things.”

“I’m not going to try to convince you otherwise, because you’re not going to listen to me on this, but you asked my opinion so I’m gonna give it to you. Blaming you for the shit you’ve done since the 1940s…it’d be like blaming the bullet inside the gun rather than the person who ultimately ordered the pull of the trigger.” He flicked Bucky’s ear, and smiled at his frown. “And don’t watch Fox News. That shit will rot your brains. Besides if you’re trying to look at me like I got the cleanest hands in the world, you’re going to be severely disappointed.”

That night before dinner Bucky napped. He dreamed. He shot up out of bed and slammed into the bathroom. He curled up on Sam’s bathroom floor, plush black throw carpet soft under his knees, and dry heaved until he had nothing but spit, bile, and aches. He could feel the tears on his cheeks and the snot on his face. Some young girl was still singing over the radio about how it was okay not to be okay. Bucky was mindful of the hold he had on the toilet. Sam was the forgiving sort, but Bucky didn’t think he’d be too understanding of a cracked toilet.

A cool, wet washcloth was pressed to his face, and Bucky looked up to see Sam beside him. He sat in a way to give Bucky a clear view of the bathroom door, perfect sightline for an exit. Bucky dropped his head then, not in despair, but in true gratefulness. He didn’t deserve such good people in his life.

**************

Sam had a whole phone full of psychologists and therapists. He told Bucky he’d gladly take him to as many or as few as he wanted, as long as he felt comfortable enough to keep talking to someone. There were things Bucky couldn’t share with Sam, couldn’t even share with Steve, and didn’t know if he could share it with half the people Sam recommended. Bucky wanted someone stable instead of the volunteers at the meeting. He finally felt secure enough with his possible planned escape routes and gathered hidden resources that he could stand down for a bit.

“Nothing about me is standard,” he said. “I can’t just talk to some random doc with standard war trauma related PTSD treatment.”

“You want somebody with security clearance?” Sam asked over breakfast.

“I don’t think there’s anyone around with enough of that, but yeah. I need someone with at least enough insider knowledge to know that things I’m talking about, the missions I’ve undertaken, my entire _life_ up to this point, aren’t made up. How’s this going to work if I have to give a cover story to the people trying to fix me?”

Sam nodded. “I might know where to start. Let me just call someone. He should be able to tell me some non-Hydra affiliated former SHIELD people.”

Bucky frowned. “Isn’t that more Natasha and Steve’s area?”

Sam shrugged. “It was a big organization. They don’t know everyone. I didn’t even know he was SHIELD until I ran into his cousin the other day. She was there when we took the Triskelion. Helped us the only way she could.”

Sam’s mysterious friend had a name in less than a week. 

Dr. Ana Reyes was a tiny woman with a take-no-shit attitude. She had laugh lines deeply embedded around her eyes, with grey-streaked dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. She screamed former military in the regulation way she held her body, the controlled organization of her desk, and the authoritative cadence of her words.

She reminded Bucky of Mrs. Donnelly from the old neighborhood, who had been a nurse in the Great War, and was as unimpressed with James Barnes as Dr. Reyes.

She didn’t speak to him like any of the other docs and counselors he’d worked with over the past half-year. She spoke to him like a non-commissioned officer to a lower enlisted soldier.

“Wilson wasn’t wrong when he said you’ve been through some shit. The fact you’re not catatonic is impressive to say the least. Did you hold some poor surgeon at gunpoint to get all the trackers out of your body? You can’t tell me Hydra didn’t have you lojacked, an expensive weapon such as yourself.”

“I went to the spy museum. They have a few things behind the glass that still worked. I marked off all the spots that pinged and cut them out myself.”

“I suppose I should be impressed by that,” she said. 

Bucky had been in more than a few therapy sessions, never really feeling anything for the person on the other side of the desk or table, but he felt an immediate sense of respect for her.

“So, what’s your schedule like?” Bucky asked. He cocked his head to the side and smirked in the way that used to work on the dancehall girls. “Think you can fit me in?”

She took one look at him and laughed. Bucky was sure this wasn’t how it was professionally done, but fuck it. He felt himself relax into his chair and smirked.

“Good to know I’ve still got it,” Bucky said.

Dr. Reyes shook her head. “I almost feel sorry for Wilson. He’s gone and got himself into the deepest of shit with you.”

****

**********

On nights when he couldn’t stay still, and he knew Sam needed at least one decent night a week no matter what he claimed, Bucky would always slip outside and call Steve. He knew Steve was busy as hell with all the Hydra cells and their connections, but he also knew little Stevie Rogers and his thoughts about never getting to have or keep the good things in his life. He could only guess what losing Bucky, coming out of the ice, seeing Peggy, seeing what Bucky had _become_ , and watching people die for him and on his command had done.

“You ever coming back home?” he asked.

“Of course,” Steve said without a second of hesitation. “I just have to finish stuff up here first.”

“It’s never going to be finished,” Bucky said. 

“Well, I have to make a dent at least,” Steve said.

Bucky didn’t want to argue with him, or let him know just how deep down Hydra’s roots went. Even Bucky didn’t know the full extent, and he didn’t want to make Steve feel even more hopeless.

“We used to love nights like this,” he said instead. “Couldn’t see the stars on the roof, still too many lights in Brooklyn even then, but you never cared. You always loved the moon.”

“And you’ve always loved the night,” Steve said. “I want to draw you watching it again.”

“Just draw?” Bucky asked. 

“You’d have to ask Sam if he’d be okay with anything more.”

“I keep trying, but he just doesn’t get it.”

“Natasha offered to give him a cognitive recalibration.”

“What?”

“To hit him really hard in the head.”

“I don’t think a reboot is going to fix things. I don’t want her breaking him. He’s good as he is, just needs to get a clue.”

“Maybe he doesn’t think of us like that.” Steve’s voice sounded more lost then than Bucky could remember. 

Bucky really didn’t think that was it. He’d felt the weight of Sam’s eyes on his skin, watching as his arms worked to fix everything from clogged sinks to crooked picture frames. He also knew Steve was biding his time as he waited to see if Sam would make a move. It’d have to be Sam. Neither of them was going to pressure him into a relationship change he didn’t want. Bucky would not put himself between them either. He stepped back for Peggy, and he’d step back for Sam too, if that’s what he wanted. Bucky didn’t think that was it, not having slept beside the man as he moaned in ways that had nothing to do with bad memories.

“I’ve slept beside him for months now, and I know the names he calls out during the good dreams. He wants something.”

“Natasha’s working on it,” Steve promised. He took a deep breath. “So, you’re seeing a new doctor?”

“Dude,” Bucky said with sudden enthusiasm while mentally blaming the television for his vocabulary changes. “She’s a battle axe. I’m in awe.”


	3. Three

Sam had a four-day conference in Nashville he had to attend for work. He promised to bring back a present if Bucky didn’t burn the house down. He promised a second present if Bucky successfully thwarted any plans from the various Wilson siblings to stop by and surprise redecorate. No one expressly _said_ Bucky was going to have a babysitter, but Natasha appeared in the living room before Sam had even pulled out of the driveway. 

Bucky looked between the just closed door and the couch where Natasha already had a bowl of   
popcorn and a stack of napkins. She patted the cushion next to her. 

Bucky gave one last look to the driveway, wishing he’d just hidden away in Sam’s backseat and snuck on the plane—or any plane—before he crossed the room and dropped down next to Natasha.

She shoved the bowl at him. “Eat.”

Bucky reflexively took a handful and stopped when metal fingers scrapped the edges of a ceramic bowl. Natasha just gave him a look before promptly throwing three pieces of popcorn in the air and catching them all with her mouth. She quirked an eyebrow in challenge.

“Wasn’t born yesterday, sweetheart,” Bucky said.

“Call me sweetheart again and I’ll make it so you weren’t born at all,” she said.

He had no doubt she could make it happen. Even with the congressional oversight meetings and the call for her to be put on trial, Natasha Romanoff remained one of the most connected people in the world for legitimate and under-the-table business dealings. Bucky may have tried to remove himself as far from the field as possible, but he still saw and heard things in his everyday perusal of the newspaper, internet, and random conversations in coffee shops and grocery stores. 

Curled up on the couch wearing a loose t-shirt, shorts, and Mickey Mouse-print socks, she appeared almost normal. 

Bucky’s eyes strayed to the spot on her stomach where he once shot through her.

“Are we going to talk about what happened all those years ago?” he asked.

“Nope,” Natasha said. “We’ve both done things we had to for survival, to complete a mission, and to get out alive by any means necessary. I won’t condemn you for an action I’ve also done in the past.”

“I shot through you to kill your target. You were nothing but a large silencer to me,” Bucky said. “I have to take responsibility for my actions.”

“Do you take responsibility for your orders when you could not question them?”

“That’s not the point.”

Natasha smiled. “You’re surprisingly human for a bionic man, Bucky Barnes. You refuse to make excuses, or let others make them, but you also cannot take the blame of a whole system and a whole government’s policy. You were, and are, and will always be a soldier. I will always be an asset. There comes a time, when we just do what we can to get through each day. We must make our own truth. We have to realize we’ve been pawns, and we’ve moved the pieces, and live with the knowledge of the blood on our hands, but if you let it consume you, they win.” She straightened her shoulders. “And I refuse to lose.”

**************

Bucky had always liked being touched _before_. Then came the fall and the frozen years and the only time he felt pressure on his skin was from hands forcing him back and down and ordering him to follow their will. Since last April and the helicarrier and the fall of Hydra, he’d come to appreciate the feel of strong fingers gripping his shoulder or forearm in support. He appreciated hugs from the people he’d learn to trust enough to let close. He remembered desire. He remembered wanting, pining, anticipation, hitched breaths, and hot skin, and the taste of someone else on his tongue.

After years of numbness and order, frustration was a welcome—if annoying—respite.

He was still learning to accept that he was _allowed_ to feel desire again. And friendship. And love. And loyalty, contentment, and happiness. It’d been a good six decades since he had a crush, but goddamn did it feel kind of good. 

The house was too quiet now without Sam. Steve still called about every four hours just to _see how he was doing_ , but Natasha had pretty much left him to his own devices after that first day. He had no idea where she’d run off to after breakfast, but she promised to be home before dinner. Bucky was still trying to wipe her lipstick off his cheek an hour later.

He looked at himself in the mirror. It’s something he forced himself to do once he broke free. No delusions about what had been done to him; no way to hide the truth from himself when he could see the metal arm and shoulder parts seamed with scarred flesh. He liked to think he didn’t feel it anymore, but he knew now he’d just grown used to it—adjusted for any pain or strain and recalibrated. Part man and part machine, but still something like human at least.

He’d started to work out again once the stitches finally healed, but he had yet to spar with anyone. Sam offered, but Bucky couldn’t. He didn’t know if in the heat of sparring battle instinct would override better sense, and no matter how well trained Sam was it remained a fact that if Bucky took a swing with his metal arm, he could probably crush Sam’s ribcage without even trying. So he ran through the old routines they taught him back in Basic, and then Aisha introduced him to Zumba, so he did that once or twice a week. He didn’t say shit when Sam presented him with the official Zumba Gold for Seniors dvd package. Only one of them complained of an aching back on the regular, and it sure as hell wasn’t Bucky. 

The phone rang and Bucky slinked out to the bedroom. Eight in the morning. Steve’s first call of the day.

“Still not dead,” Bucky said.

“Still not funny,” Steve answered. 

“Yeah, well, when you ask me each morning what year I think it is and which president is in office, I got to change it up,” Bucky said. “2014 and Obama, before you ask me to clarify.”

“I wasn’t going to, jackass. You’re clearly your charming self this morning.”

Bucky laughed. “Oh, I learned it from the best.”

“Fuck you,” Steve said with the full weight of his affection.

“Only if Sam’s there too,” Bucky replied. He rubbed at his cheek again. “You don’t happen to know how to get Natasha’s lipstick off your skin, do ya? Because I’m about to use turpentine, I don’t really care what it does to the rest of me.”

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve sighed. “There are makeup remover cleansing cloths in the guest bathroom. They’re in a tiny blue package. I can’t believe soap, water, and that arm of yours couldn’t get the job done, but that’s what those little cloths are made to do. It’s in the tool box.”

“What?” Bucky asked.

“Under the sink in the back of the cabinet,” Steve said.

Bucky went to the guest bedroom and sorted through a stack of child-themed paper bathroom cups before finding a large tool box that read _In Case of Emergency_ in Sam’s handwriting.

“What the fuck?” Bucky asked.

“Between his mom, aunts, nieces, friends, and Natasha Sam said he just realized it was better to be prepared.”

Sure enough inside the box, under a myriad of hairbrushes, curling irons, and various other gadgets, Bucky found the package. It worked. Still took some effort, but worked.

“Great, now my whole face is red.”

“It’ll be fine,” Steve said. “You’ve always been a handsome devil.”

“But only one of us is currently People’s _Most Eligible Bachelor_. I read the most interesting things in the check-out line.”

“Fuck,” Steve muttered. “I forgot about that circus. Maria said it’d be a public relations point in our favor, especially since it was fan-voted.”

Bucky could hear the embarrassment in Steve’s voice, and the disbelief that people even wanted a bit of Steve Rogers' time. If he’d only known, even back before a war, how many people just wanted to be better by knowing him.

“Ten bucks says your face is redder than mine right now,” Bucky said.

The doorbell rang and Bucky could hear the distinct laughter of three little girls.

“Gotta go,” he said. “It seems like the trio is here to watch me.”

“Give them my love,” Steve said before he hung up.

Bucky did not expect Selah to be on the other side of the door. Logically he _knew_ it should be her since Sam was out of town and her husband was usually at Quantico all day, but sometimes Sarah or Simon stopped by with the troops.

The girls all rushed the door to hug him before going off to their usual places, but Selah lingered in the doorway.

“Uh, hi,” Bucky said. 

Selah gave Bucky one long, studying look. He wasn’t a stranger to such a thing, but it’d been a long time since a gaze felt so heavy.

“You’re the second boyfriend, then?” she asked as she walked inside.

Bucky gripped the back of his neck and tried not to blush as he followed her to the kitchen. Shit he should’ve cleaned those dishes right after breakfast. “Um, we’re not exactly like that.”

“But you’d like to be,” she said.

Bucky looked at Aisha, Alia, and Alana. “Um, should we be talking about this right now?”

Selah scoffed. “Their uncle is living in sin with Captain America. I don’t think talking about your obvious crush on the same uncle is going to scar them for life. I’m trying to raise my girls to accept the world with open minds.”

“Your dad’s a minster.”

“And my brother’s bisexual. One doesn’t cancel out the other. I’ve always been proud of Samuel, no matter what. You’re not really going to change that opinion. I don’ care who you used to be or what you used to do. I care about now, and Sam’s investment in you. He sees the goodness in folks, even when they can’t see it within themselves.”

Bucky wondered what it was about the Wilsons that made them seem like a collective of kindly interrogators.

“Who do you work for again?” he asked only half-joking.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She went to the fridge and pulled out a beer.

“Girls, I’m sure your Uncle Sammy wouldn’t mind you using the side of his house as a range. How about your grab your bows and we move this outside.”

“Uh—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle the fall out. He had to have seen this coming.”

There were a few mismatched chairs out in the backyard and Selah gestured to one as she the girls readied their Nerf-bows. 

“So, tell me who you really are—or at least what you can,” Selah said. “Sam can’t shut up about you, neither can Steve of course, and the girls are even worse.”

“Not much to tell,” Bucky said. “Born in Brooklyn, fought a war, fell, got caught, made a monster, came out of it while almost destroying the world. Currently looking into possible employment opportunities and catching up on what I’ve missed.”

“You skipped over a lot there,” Selah said. “No mention of the man who uses different voices as he reads to my girls.”

Bucky shrugged. “I had a little sister once.”

Selah’s eyes were kind and she reached out a hand. Bucky took it. Took a deep breath, and then turned to watch the girls play.

***************

Natasha waited until he was full of dessert and drowsing when she struck.

“So, are we going to talk about Sam and Steve?”

Bucky groaned and sat up. “What is it about today?”

“The cost of making friends and family,” Natasha said

“What’s to talk about?” he asked. “They’re both the epitome of good human beings.”

Natasha flicked his ear. “Don’t be an asshole. You’re in love with both of them.”

“Jesus,” Bucky muttered as he rubbed his ear. “You got a permit for that weapon?”

She glared at him.

He held up a hand in defeat. “Fine. Okay. I think part of me will always love Steve, regardless of who I choose to be.”

“And who is that person?”

It was a question he’d been composing the answer to for over a year now. He finally had one that satisfied him, and knowing Natasha’s ability to read people, she knew it. It felt good to share with someone who wasn’t Dr. Reyes. 

“I like the name Bucky. I’m thinking about learning how to cook. I like musicals and what Sam calls _stupid ass_ comedies, and Tom Petty  & the Heartbreakers. I have a hell of a world going on inside my head, but I’m trying to keep moving on. I don’t think I’m ready to be a soldier again—honestly don’t know if I ever was ready. I’ll still keep up with my training, but I’d like to not do anything death related for at least a year. I trust only a handful of people. I’ve been getting to know this guy Steve over the phone. Reminds me of someone I used to know, but different in a few important and significant ways. Great man, that Steve. I’ve been getting to know this guy Sam in person. One of the best human beings I’ve yet to cross paths with in all my long years. This gal Natasha keeps popping up out of nowhere, but I guess she’s cool. Alana thinks I’m the coolest, Alia likes to paint my finger and toe nails, and Aisha likes to make me read her schoolbooks. We’re on _To Kill a Mockingbird_ right now. Apparently there’s a movie too. Let’s see…what else? I still think major grocery stores and supercenters are too much, but I understand I’m actually not alone in that. Oh, and I know those motherfuckers wiped the bullshit knowledge out of my brain that the Dodgers left Brooklyn, because hell no.”

“Not such a bad guy then.”

“Nah?” Bucky asked.

Natasha shrugged. “Eh, you do kind of do that dreamy sigh thing whenever Sam has his back turned.”

“I do not.”

“You _so_ do. He does it too though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Natasha said. “You three are entertaining. I don’t understand why you can’t get your shit together. Aside from Steve taking his time beating up Hydra cells to work out some of his anger issues, you should be beyond this casual flirting moony-eyed stage by now.”

“You do remember I tried to kill Sam multiple times?”

“I briefly recall this, yes. He so clearly holds a grudge. Denied. Next excuse?”

She really was one of the best.

**************

Bucky woke up in the middle of the night, sweat drenching his body and sheets wet. For once it had nothing to do with memories.

He buried his face in his hands, metal a cool, welcome touch on his forehead.

“I’m pretty goddamned sure I’m too old for this bullshit,” he told the empty room. 

His body clearly didn’t give one iota of one single fuck. Bucky threw back the sheets and went to the shower. He turned it to as cold as possible and stepped under. It did exactly nothing.

“I am so going to hell,” Bucky said as he took a deep breath of the remnants of Sam’s body wash from the loofa. He wrapped a hand around his dick and leaned his forehead against the cool tile. 

Frustration was still welcome to numbness, but he really didn’t want to deal with Natasha’s knowing face when he had to wash the sheets in the morning.

****************

There was a plaque that hung over Dr. Reyes’ desk. It was engraved in tiny, cursive font and Bucky wondered if anyone ever bothered to read it.

“ _Frankly dear, I’ve kicked more ass than you’ve sat on_ ,” he said aloud. “Why?” he asked.

“ _Farscape_. Truly underrated Science Fiction show. You should maybe watch it. It’ll hit a little close to home, especially with the mind fuck moments, so consider this my official caution. You said you wished there were movies out there you could relate to; it’s not a movie per se and for fuck’s sake it’s ten times better than anything with Mel Gibson or Jean-Claude Van Damme. So consider it; it might be good for you.”

“Are you supposed to be advising me with a _might_? Will that make Sam pull out his _this is unethical_ frown, because I’m still hearing it over the one beer fiasco.”

Dr. Reyes face went stone cold drill sergeant. “Wilson can kiss my wrinkly brown ass. I’ve been doing this since he still had training wheels on his tricycle. I’m not going to prescribe you anything because we can’t predict the drug interactions with whatever’s pumping through your bloodstream constantly, and I refuse to guess on a dosage amount. We can’t do anything without making you a lab rat again, and that’s a level of bullshit I’m not willing to tempt with your self-sacrificial tendencies and you’re rationalization that you’ve been through worse. So having _one_ drink in a controlled environment where you feel safe is the only other option to possibly get you to relax enough to sleep, and if Wilson has a problem with that, than tough shit. I know better than anyone how PTSD and alcohol is a Molotov cocktail of bad ideas, but you don’t exactly allow me to work with standard procedures and known parameters. We knew—by your own admission, may I remind that toddler Wilson—that alcohol didn’t interact badly with your system in World War II. I’m not advocating you to drink the pain away or get hammered or even get tipsy. One drink occasionally. That’s all.”

Bucky saluted her.

“And tell Wilson to stay out of it. He let you watch _Independence Day_ and the finale of _M*A*S*H_ which other members in our profession may have cautioned against. I’ll type up a list of possible triggers for _Farscape_ and you can keep that handy if you decide you want to watch it.”

“I appreciate that,” Bucky said.

“You should,” Dr. Reyes said. “Now, have you considered any of the hobbies we’ve talked about? I don’t mean that murder board you’ve built in the garage either. I mean something to occupy your down time and get you away from your governmentally approved killing licensure.”

“ _I killed the President of Paraguay with a fork. How have you been?_ ”

“Jesus,” Dr. Reyes said. “Who let you watch _Grosse Pointe Blank_?”

“Natasha. She said it might be freeing. I enjoyed it.” Bucky laughed. “But seriously, I’m pretty good with a knife.”

“So, you want to try woodworking?”

Bucky shook his head.“ I was thinking more along the lines of cooking, maybe?”

“Maybe?” Dr. Reyes asked.

Right. Decisions and the need to take definitive actions and steps towards his own goal of personal self-fulfillment. “Definitely. I want to try learning how to cook.”

Dr. Reyes actually smiled at him. It felt like victory.

He left the session a little wrung out like always, but with a smile on his face and a paper full of book suggestions about PTSD he hadn’t yet read. He appreciated that Dr. Reyes recognized his need to research, to _know_ as much as he could about what the fuck was going on in his head. She wasn’t too bad at all and Bucky knew how significant it was that he relaxed in her office. 

He found Sam in the lobby, a newsboy hat on his head and casual in jeans and a t-shirt. He was relaxed, sunglasses over his eyes and face turned towards the sunlight coming in through the high windows. Bucky felt his mouth go draw and took a deep breath so he didn’t stumble down the stairs and break something vital. 

He would be the jackass who finally died thanks to some stupid injury like getting caught on an escalator and breaking his neck because he was too busy thinking about how sweat would taste on Sam Wilson’s skin. 

“You feeling okay?” Sam asked when he Bucky wandered over to him. “You’re a little flushed. Alia had a cold last week. She might’ve passed it on to you.”

Bucky gripped the back of his neck with his metal hand and froze as he pressed down too hard. Jesus Christ. There was a time when he was better at all this, or maybe that’s just what he told his old self.

“I’m good. I promise,” he said. 

“Uh-huh,” Sam said with absolute no belief in his tone. “Well, I was going to suggest we grab a bite, but I think I should just take you home.”

Bucky slowly shook his head. “Stand down, Dr. Wilson. I’m really okay. Let’s go eat something. I could do with some food.”

“You sure?” Sam asked as he stood.

“Unless you want me to call Steve and tell him I’m living off candy bars and cheddar crackers, yeah.”

Sam laughed and threw an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Better get some food in you then. Can’t let the old man down.” 

“Enjoy your time in Tennessee?” Bucky asked.

“Even brought you back a souvenir. Teddy bear with cowboy boots and a hat. It seemed your style,” Sam said. 

Bucky thought he was joking, but there was the small bear in the passenger seat. Sam winked at him before he got into the car.

That night Bucky woke up before he could make a mess of the bed. He was careful as he slipped out of bed and into the shower, not wanting to wake Sam. He let the water pound against his back and took a deep breath full of the steam and the scent of Sam’s shampoo. Sam was still curled up in bed, lost to his dreams, so Bucky had to turn his mouth to the side, bite down on the skin of his own arm, and force back his gasps as he came. He rested his head against the wet tile and took a deep breath. Then another. 

Somewhere Natasha was cackling at him.

**************

Saturday morning saw a return to normal routine. Mostly normal, at least. They had Alana for the day while Aisha and Alia were on some Girl Scout troop camping thing. It was still a nice, lazy morning while Sam and Bucky lingered over their coffee and Alana took over the couch with coloring books, dolls, and her own personal tablet.

“Dr. Reyes thinks the cooking lessons are a good idea,” Bucky said. “I can control how my food is prepared, but I don’t think I can do a closed room full of strangers yet.”

“We’ve got an exceptional digital cable package with On Demand and the Food Network, not to mention the magical mystery tour of the internet. You want to start off in our kitchen you’re more than welcome,” Sam said. He tapped Bucky’s foot with his own. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Yes, really. I had to decide who I was going to be and I’ve firmly made that decision now. I had some choices, you know. That kid from before Pearl Harbor changed the world? That frozen terrified boy in the foxhole? The shell Steve pulled off a table? The sniper? The soldier? I decided to go with Bucky. Vet, kind of consumed, but still swimming—just like you told me that first night. I couldn’t go to Steve, or come here, or do anything to lay down roots until I know that answer for sure, and it took a while. I’m still building on it. I wasn’t going to survive all the shit I’ve been through just to be stuck as the memory of a man I couldn’t ever be again. Let the world have Sgt Barnes and his legacy. I’ll be Bucky and start watching cooking shows and keep eating all your Cheetos.”

“Again?”

“They’re really good.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Sam said. His eyes flickered to one of the empty chairs. 

“We’ll get Steve home even if we have to drag him back,” Bucky said. “That’s the problem with following Steve Rogers, stubborn little shit who never knows when to quit.”

Sam laughed. “That could be his new motto.”

“Certainly better than Star Spangled Man,” Bucky said. 

“But it’s such a catchy song,” Sam said.

“Don’t,” Bucky warned. “I can still hear the boys singing it in some bar in London, drunk and slurring and screaming. Only reason we didn’t get kicked out was probably because of the combined forces of Peggy and Steve. The boys would’ve liked you.”

“I would’ve liked them,” Sam said. His smile grew larger as he sprawled out and tangled his legs with Bucky’s.

Alana came over to them with a coloring book in her hands. She hopped onto one of the empty chairs and held the book up to Bucky’s arm.

“Are you a Transformer?” Alana asked.

“I don’t think so,” Bucky said.

“He’s not,” Sam said. “He just has a different kind of arm.”

Alana pressed her tiny hand over the scratched red star. “Do you need a touch-up?”

Bucky softly laughed. “I think I just need something new.”

It was either the right or wrong thing to say. Alana’s eyes light up and she patted his arm. “Stay here,” she said as she slid off the chair and ran towards the guest room.

“Uh?” Buck asked.

Sam shook his head. “She’s got that Makeover Time look on her face. You’re on your own, Buck.”

An hour and a small mountain of sticker books later, Alana finally declared her work finished. Bucky had a legion of shiny, colorful cartoonish pony stickers on his arm. Sam had tears rolling down his face and his phone in his hand as he took picture after picture.

“I’ll take some Goo Gone to your arm after we peel all those off,” Sam said after Alana had declared her own nap time.

“Nah,” Bucky said. “I kind of like ‘em. They can stay.”

**************

That night he called Steve.

“Come home,” Bucky said. “I know Sam’s already asked you, and I get why you’re worried about possibly setting back my progress, but I got this. So come home.”

“Bucky,” Steve said.

“Buddy, you’re not going to fuck me up any more than I already am. I’ve decided who I’m going to be now and I’m actively working towards it. A little bit of columns A, B, and C, who goes by Bucky and is learning how to cook, and kind of wants to kiss your boyfriend a lot and also you. So, get your ass back here. You’re not going to ruin me, Steve.”

“Pretty sure you fell off a train because of me.”

That _jackass_. “Pretty sure you’ve saved me a few times before that and since,” Bucky threw back.

“Yeah, but I still owe you.”

“You want to do me a solid? Get your ass back here in time for your birthday.”

“That an order, Buck?”

“Nah, I’m just askin’.”

“Can’t promise nothing, but I’ll try,” Steve said.

“I’ll take it,” Bucky said. He looked through the doorway where Sam was sprawled across their new, large bed. “Seriously. Get the fuck home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got away from me, so I decided to just split it into two different ones. The "war room" Bucky-Natasha-Steve meeting I mentioned to some folks will appear in the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should point out that Sam's family as presented in this 'verse isn't the same as in 616. He does have a sister named Sarah Wilson here, but it's not the same Sarah from the comics.

One morning, months after Bucky broke into Sam’s house, he woke up to the sound of the shower running. It was 7:15. Sam usually left the house by 6:30. He knew Steve was currently out of contact on a mission; one Natasha had left to join, so either Sam was sick or had overslept or both. Bucky refused to think of any darker possibilities or the myriad of ways he knew how to make a murder look like a household accident.

Bucky slid out of bed and crept to the door. He wanted to give Sam his privacy, but he still needed to make sure he didn’t need help. Bucky paused as he heard the sound under the running water. He knew all too well about trying to cover the noise of angry sobs with the shower. He raised his hand to knock, but stopped himself. Some mourning was best left private. He wracked his brain for the dates of Riley’s birth and death, and neither matched. He recalled the first days of each of Sam’s year-long tours of duty and it was too late in the year for both of those as well. 

He gave up trying to guess and instead grabbed the phone and called Sam out of work. The young man who answered seemed concerned and told Bucky to keep Sam hydrated in case it was food poisoning or a stomach bug. Bucky refrained from telling the kid he’d cut his own trackers out of his arm with a pocket knife, so he pretty much had _stomach bug protocol_ down. Not to even mention Sam was a trained medic who had cut his teeth in a goddamned war zone.

Bucky made breakfast while he waited for Sam to emerge—simple oatmeal, turkey bacon, wheat toast, and a fruit bowl. He was debating on orange juice, water, milk, tea, coffee or a whole variety spread when Sam appeared. He looked like shit; worn out and world weary. His shirt didn’t even match his trousers and Bucky knew how meticulous Sam usually was about his work clothes. It was important for him to portray an image as a professional, if only for respect's sake. Bucky knew how clothes could be their own armor. This was home though, this was safe, and Sam should be allowed to stand down. Bucky had this covered. 

“Get back into your pajamas. You’re not going to work today,” Bucky said. “I already called for you. The food will hold.”

“Thanks, Buck,” Sam said.

“No problem.” 

Sam came back in his boxers and a shirt at least two sizes too big, red, old and worn. Bucky had never seen it before, and he’d taken over laundry duties after his first month here. Sam pressed a hand over the faded screen-print as he took his seat. Bucky frowned as he tried to decipher the image. It looked like some form of ancient helmet. He didn’t recall it having any significance to the ParaJumpers and shrugged it off as something Sam might tell him in time.

“You went all out,” Sam said as he looked over the table.

“It’s not that much,” Bucky said. 

“Bucky, you made a fruit bowl out of a watermelon,” Sam said.

Bucky shrugged. “I saw a girl in the produce section of the grocery store do it. Jacqui gave me pointers and free samples.”

“Who could turn down that smile,” Sam said. His own lips twisted in a poor imitation of his usual grin.

Bucky carefully reached a hand out, hovering over Sam’s arm until he got a nod in approval. He gripped Sam’s hand tight until Sam looked at him.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Bucky said. “You’re not going to damage my fragile ego by having a quiet day to yourself. I know you like to talk, Samuel, but you don’t have to today. Unless you want, of course.”

Sam smile was real this time. “Well, damn. Look at you, grasshopper.”

He took up his fork with his other hand, but didn’t let Bucky’s go until their plates were clear.

“Movie time?” Sam asked as he finished the dishes. 

“Sure. What’s the cinematic lesson today, Professor Wilson?” Bucky asked.

Sam glanced down at his shirt. “ _Remember the Titans_.”

The credits had just started rolling—and Bucky was only crying a little in a completely justified way—when Sam clicked the tv off and the room went silent. Bucky knew this type of quiet; he was achingly familiar with the calm before the storm.

“Part of me wants to throw this remote through the window,” Sam said as he very deliberately put it down on the coffee table. “But I know that won’t make things better and I really don’t feel like paying for a window replacement. Also, it’d waste the central air, and the power bill is high enough.”

“We could go to the gym,” Bucky offered.

Sam shook his head. “Can’t hit ghosts, Buck. Got to learn to live with them.” Sam put his hand over his shirt again. 

“Titan logo?” Bucky guessed.

Sam nodded. “When I first ended up rooming with Riley we watched this once a week. We called him Sunshine before he became Redwing. I was Doc before I got Falcon. _Ain’t No Mountain_ became our own little theme song. We laughed so hard about it we almost shit ourselves, and everyone in our unit started singing or whistling the tune around us. On my own I’d get _Son of a Preacher Man_ and Riley got _Pretty Fly for a White Guy_ , but when we were together? It was _Ain’t No Mountain High Enough_ or _Up Where We Belong_.”

Sam rubbed a hand over his head and sighed. “We were so fucking young, Buck. Riley was older than men and still got carded.” Sam clenched his fists. “He never made it to thirty. I remember when thirty seemed so old when I was a teenager, but now? Fuck—that’s still a kid. It makes you so goddamned frustrated sometimes. The loss of it all. The things that will never be.” Sam looked up at Bucky and shook his head. “Fuck. I shouldn’t be saying this to you.”

“Hey,” Bucky said as he nudged Sam’s foot. “Shut the fuck up. You can say whatever you want to me, asshole. I _get_ it, Sam.”

Sam just shrugged, drawn in on himself and _oh hell no_.

“You want me to call up Steve right now? I’ll do it. I will hack all the layers and lines Natasha’s probably used to bury their comms and I’ll find them and drag their asses back here if you need me to do that. Just ‘cause I don’t want to be the Winter Soldier anymore, doesn’t mean that knowledge just left. It’s always going to be there, but just like how you know throwing a remote through a window isn’t going to solve shit, I know that spending my days treating every little thing like a mission is far from healthy. I excel at repression though, and tapping down certain things until my objective is complete. You need me to go get them right now so you have someone you can talk to while not piling unneeded guilt on top of yourself, I’ll do it. Or I’ll get your siblings. Or hell, I’ll ask Dr. Reyes or Father Patel to make a house call.” 

Bucky slid off the couch and crouched down so Sam had no choice but to look at him. It made Bucky vulnerable, back to the door and windows, caught between Sam’s legs and the coffee table, and actually kneeling at someone’s feet.

He didn’t care.

“Or you can talk and I can listen. Or I can talk and you can listen. Or we can both not talk and put on a movie or one of your records or just sit. Sitting can be good.”

Sam put his hands on Bucky’s shoulders and squeezed. “You’re pretty exceptional, you know that right?”

Bucky shrugged. “Talking about yourself there, Wilson. I’m just me.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “That’s kind of what I meant.”

Bucky rested his hands on Sam’s legs and watched in satisfaction as Sam sank back into the couch.

“So, today?” he asked.

“First day I met Riley.”

Bucky nodded. “So, ice cream?”

“Before lunch?”

“We can risk it.”

**************

That night, while Sam curled around Bucky and Bucky ignored the tears that occasionally soaked his shirt, he texted Steve.

 _I know you’ve got a job to do, but if you’re not here in two weeks for your birthday I will drag you back here by your ear and you’ll be praying I’m as gentle as Sister Mary Catherine and her claws_.

When Steve replied he didn’t question how Bucky got through to him. It was one simple word; it was enough.

 _Acknowledged_.

**************

Selah was the Wilson (in this case Wilson-Burton) sibling Bucky had the most interaction with by virtue of the three nieces, but occasionally he’d found himself with a Simon Wilson in the house doing laundry or a Sarah Wilson in the bathroom lamenting the lack of a bathtub in her own apartment. It was how he’d learned that the Wilsons all started in Harlem, but slowly moved to the area one-by-one either for job opportunities, education, or because the Chitauri and the Avengers destroyed their former apartment buildings. Outside of Selah, he saw Sarah the most because she cashiered at the grocery store closest to Dr. Reyes’ office.

Somehow Bucky always ended up buying her lunch as she smiled at him and said _grad student_. She snagged a weekly sale paper for him a day early, and offered him rides back to the house in exchange for a home-cooked meal, so it worked out relatively well for both of them. 

Today was one of those days where Bucky had bought lunch and a tank of gas, while Sarah drove them back to the house. She was singing along with the radio, telling him how great the current song was even if it was old, and then laughed at the look on Bucky’s face.

“Blu Cantrell,” she said. “Look her up.”

“Billie Holiday,” he shot back. 

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Have you met my brother? He has her stuff on vinyl. He took swing dancing lessons in high school.”

“He did _what_?”

Sarah laughed. “Oh, Barnes. Have I got a YouTube video to show you.”

Bucky just shook his head and tried not to drop the tray full if ice cream sundaes Sarah insisted they buy from the McDonald’s closest to the house. 

“Sam’s got a sweet tooth,” she said. “And you’re moving at a snail’s pace.” She shook her head. “No, a sloth’s pace. I don’t want to insult the snails.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bucky said.

“Natasha and I go out for coffee sometimes,” she said. “If you sit there and try to tell me nothing other than brotherly affection is in your heart when you think of my brother or of Steve, or of them together, then you’re going to make the Baby Jesus cry, Bucky. Do you want to make the Baby Jesus cry?”

Bucky did not want to make the Baby Jesus—or any type of Jesus—cry. 

“Did Natasha put you up to this? Or was it Selah?”

“Aisha,” Sarah said. 

That probably explained the PFLAG pamphlets she’d shoved in between his flashcards.

“Does your family consider world domination as a bonding experience?” he asked.

“We’re aiming for the White House first. I say give it to Simon. He’s good at shaking hands and kissing babies.” She pulled into the driveway and gave a look at the group of movers hauling in pieces of a very large bedframe into the house.

“Um?” Bucky asked as he got out of the car. Sam was on the lawn directing traffic.

“Natasha suggested a bigger bed, and I can’t say she’s wrong. Steve’s got some broad shoulders and your elbows are pointy,” he said.

“Of course,” Bucky said.

Sarah just laughed and stole the cherry off Bucky’s sundae.

****************

Bucky had told Steve to be home by July 4th or there would be consequences. The fucker dragged his ass back home on July 3rd with hours to spare. Bucky would’ve probably said some shit if it wasn’t for the fact that he was really tired after a day of Dr. Reyes listening as he word-vomited his fears and insecurities and Sam was so nice to sleep with—on— _next to_ —around.

Steve was _home_ though. Sam was extra-relaxed. And Bucky? Bucky had to adjust to the new sounds and scents of a person constantly being in his space. It didn’t matter that he’d once lived with Steve back in the 30s and 40s. They were different men now, with different habits, lives, histories, and stories without each other. 

They met the Fourth with bellies full of cake and _Yankee Doodle Dandy_ playing on the screen. Steve was damn near comatose with his head on Sam’s shoulder and his feet in Bucky’s lap.

“He came home,” Sam said.

Bucky studied Sam and Steve in the glow of the television screen. He felt his breath catch with something that felt like _hope_ before he smiled. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Yeah, he did.”

Bucky let the other two sleep the day away while he cleaned up the kitchen, the bathroom, sorted through the dirty laundry Steve had dumped by the hamper and did a load of wash. He kept glancing back at the two men on the coach, so comfortable and so deep asleep, and made a decision.

Eventually, one day—hopefully—they’d discuss an expanding and changing relationship involving all three of them, but now was not the time. Steve had just gotten back. He deserved his own time with Sam, absent the metal-armed living, breathing baggage Bucky represented, hanging around their bedroom. Bucky figured he’d just do the polite thing and dump his shit in the guest bedroom until they’d all had time to reunite, grow comfortable, and talk.

“Going somewhere?” Sam asked.

Bucky hadn’t even heard him approach, and wasn’t that just a testament to how comfortable he’d become around Sam. 

“Just hoping Alana’s okay with me sleeping on her pretty princess sheets,” he said. “Aisha’s got that satin shit that I can’t stand, and Alia’s is the bottom bunk, and I kind of don’t want another head injury.”

Sam didn’t laugh at the joke. Sam looked like he’d just stepped in dog crap.

“Yeah—no,” Sam said as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Steve rarely sleeps—you rarely sleep—maybe you two can keep each other company all night while I enjoy my time in the Land of Nod. I didn’t get the bigger bed just for the hell of it. This is _our_ bedroom, Buck. It’s just as much yours now as it is mine and Steve’s. You try to take another piece of clothing out of that dresser and I’m calling Natasha.”

“Please,” Bucky said. “We have an understanding.” She’d laugh at him, but she’d get it.

“Fine. I’ll call Selah.”

Bucky closed the dresser drawer. “I’m not scared of your sister. I’m just overly cautious of people who have the connections and capabilities to legally bury me all the way down to the ninth level of Hell.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Buck.” Sam sat on the bed. “Did you really think we’d ask you to leave?”

“I wasn’t going to leave,” Bucky said. “I was just moving a door down. You two haven’t been together for months and—”

“We’re adept at shower sex, if that’s what you’re implying,” Sam said.

Bucky did not need to think about that right now. “Still, it’s your bed.”

“Technically only two bodies have slept on this current mattress and neither one of them is Steve’s. We need some time alone? We’ll let you know. Don’t worry about here though. It’s _our_ space. Anyway, Steve’s overly fond of the backseats.”

Bucky tried not to laugh as he remembered a fall night lifetimes ago and the feel of small wrists under his flesh-and-blood hands as they backed into the shadows of an alley, hidden behind one of the club owner’s cars. 

“He’s always had a thing for a nice car and a nicer bike,” Bucky said.

“Jesus,” Sam said with a shake of his head. “How much trouble did you two get into on the streets of Brooklyn?”

Bucky felt the old familiar tilt of his head and twist of his lips; of being James Buchanan Barnes and full of charm. The sound of a Brooklyn nearly forgotten found its way to his tongue. 

“Maybe if you’re very good, I’ll tell ya one day.”

**************

New sleeping arrangements meant they had to work some things out, but it all got solved when Sam just threw himself down in the middle and told Steve and Bucky to figure out the rest. Bucky needed to be closest to the door, Steve took the side closest to the windows, and they all managed to relax at night. Of course there were stumbles and a few awkward moments; that was life though, and Bucky decided to conclude they were doing pretty damn well all things considered.

He actually slept for one thing. True, deep sleep that wasn’t the result of his body finally reaching its required reboot point or from a day of emotional therapeutic upheaval. The real sleep was kind of awesome, especially with the lack of night terrors. When he finally had a night devoid of nightmares and memories he slept most of the morning away.

Sam was gone by the time Bucky pulled himself out of sleep. Bucky vaguely recalled a soft hand on his cheek and a laugh, but he’d honestly just buried his face right back in his pillow. Steve was lounging on the bed, an iPad on his knees, when Bucky forced himself to sit up.

“Finally awake?” Steve asked.

Bucky stretched and then nodded. “That was awesome. Should do that again sometime. You two might be better than a white noise machine.”

“You always did say the sweetest things to me,” Steve said. His voice was soft. There was something tougher in his eyes as he studied the mass of scarring around Bucky’s arm.

Bucky knew it had to happen sooner or later; he wasn’t going to get the medically trained indifference Sam had given him. Bucky sat up and leaned towards Steve.

“Go ahead,” he said. 

“Get it over with, right?” Steve asked. 

“Or we can sit here and you can stare at me all day. I prefer ripping the Band-Aid off. At least you’ve seen the arm in action. You know what it can do.”

“Not quite the same,” Steve said. 

He put the iPad on the nightstand and touched Bucky’s skin with gentle fingers. Both of them paused, checked their breathing, before Steve gave him a questioning look.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Bucky said. “You can come closer.”

Steve was curious. Bucky remembered that about him and knew it was one of those few things that hadn’t changed. He never could or would leave well enough alone. He liked to learn. Even when various illnesses kept him out of school, he’d devour the books Mrs. Rogers and Bucky scrounged up for him. 

Now Steve studied him with equal parts of the artist, the tactician, and the man who knew him once years ago. 

“Neural transmitters?” Steve asked.

Bucky nodded. “As far as I can tell Hydra can’t track those. The Soviets maybe. They got to me first. Who the hell knows, really? No one’s come after me yet. If there was a kill switch someone would’ve hit it by now. It’s not like I can wander into a doctor’s office and ask for a check-up. I’m thinking about going to see Sam’s friend, T’Challa. If he designed those wings originally, he might have a clue.”

“Not a bad idea,” Steve said. He carefully rested his hand over the stickers covering the red star. “It really doesn't hurt?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you. Some things you just live with and they’re a part of you. That’s all it is—just a part of me now. Even if I didn’t ask for it. They probably didn’t expect me to use it to fix rusty pipes and chop vegetables, but it’s all mine now. They don’t get to say what I can do with it. No one does.”

“Damn right they don’t,” Steve said. 

Bucky’s stomach rumbled and Steve made a face before he started to laugh.

“I’ll go find something. You wash-up.”

“You trying to say I smell, Rogers?”

“Like a back alley full of cats,” Steve said. He quickly kissed Bucky’s cheek. “Your breath smells worse than shit.”

“Jackass,” he said as he punched Steve in the leg.

***************

They grabbed brunch in the same diner they had their first reunion meal. Bucky liked the fact the thought of becoming a regular here no longer made him break out in cold sweats. He still frowned when Steve asked for three glasses of water and cups of coffee.

“I thought Sam was in meetings all day?”

“He is. We’re waiting for Natasha.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. He looked around the place and wondered how she’d make her grand entrance. “War room time.”

“You tried to move out,” Steve said.

“Of the bedroom,” Bucky said. “Sorry. Next time I won’t take any active steps to ensure you and Sam have a romantic reunion that might include sex.”

“Always been a self-sacrificing little punk,” Steve said.

Bucky smirked. “Don’t make me yell at you in this nice diner about your lack of survival instinct.”

“Been saving up, have you?” Steve asked.

“Just you wait. I figured I’ll give you a week or two tops. You’ve earned a vacation. After that we’re going to _talk_ about life and death situations involving you, me, and—”

“End of the line, Buck,” Steve said. “Always.”

“You got other people now, Steve. You had them then, too.”

Steve just shrugged and Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You’re still such a little shit.”

“I learned from the best,” Steve said. “Look, I’m not going to go too far off the rails or anything.”

“Liar,” Bucky said. “Doesn’t matter the men we are now. I’m starting to see some things never change. You still jumping out of airplanes without a ‘chute?”

Steve looked at his coffee mug. “Didn’t think Natasha would’ve tattled about that.”

“Natasha, Sam, Selah, and at least twenty different mission write-ups since you woke up.”

“I have the shield,” Steve said.

“That you do,” Bucky said. “It’s a natural extension of you now. Doesn’t change the fact that we’ll be having words if you keep pulling stupid shit.”

Steve gave him a salute and Bucky kicked him under the table. It felt _right_.

“Always nice to see the senior citizens keeping young,” Natasha said. She slid in the booth next to Steve and picked up the conversation like she’d been there the whole time. Knowing her, Bucky wouldn’t doubt it. 

“Barnes has a valid point, but I’m guessing the dumbassery is strong with both of you,” Natasha said. “Sam is clearly going to be the most level-headed of your trio, unless it’s something involving flying.” She patted Bucky’s gloved hand. “Got yourself two adrenaline junkies, Barnes. Congratulations on that.”

Bucky was pretty sure Natasha held her weight with Sam and Steve need for thrills. She was part of Steve’s circle now, skirted around the edges of Sam and Bucky’s, and Bucky knew he’d be left to worry about her too in the end. Didn’t matter that you logically knew the people you cared about were competent and excelled at their jobs. If you cared, you worried. Bucky knew now it wasn’t a weakness. 

“How’s Barton?” Steve asked.

Natasha shrugged. “Alive, as per usual. He’s his own keeper. If it gets too bad, he knows to call. Not that he _will_ , but I got his apprentice/partner on it.”

“The Bishop kid?” Steve asked. 

“Hawkeye & Hawkeye,” Natasha confirmed. “Sounds like a buddy cop movie.” She sipped her coffee and flipped through a menu. “Anyone else in the mood for pancakes?”

They made with the small talk while they waited for the food to arrive. Natasha and Steve debated the values of owning a cat versus a dog while Bucky sat back and watched the way they talked to each other. There was mutual respect there and an obvious ease. They were used to running missions together. You couldn’t do that for long without trust, especially with the current political clusterfuck and scrutiny on every one of their actions. Natasha had a way of being the person her intended audience expected. Bucky was grateful she allowed him to see more of of the woman behind the stealth entrances and knowing smirks. She actually listened to Steve, even when she scrunched her nose in disagreement and threw sugar packets at his head over dissenting opinions. 

She was listening to him like a friend instead of a mark, but once the food arrived, it was obvious Natasha was still on a mission.

“You are eventually going to have to use your words and talk to Sam about this,” Natasha said. She gestured between the two of them with her butter knife. “I mean the sexual tension between Sam and Bucky alone is enough.” She turned to Steve. “With you back it’s going to get insufferable. You really need to talk it out with Sam before anyone does something they’ll regret or you forget to restock your lube and condom supply.”

“Jesus,” Bucky muttered into his hash browns.

“We know we need to talk,” Steve said.

“Do you? Because you’re kind of acting like he should just get it. He’s an empathetic person, but he’s not a mind reader,” Natasha said. 

“We plan on working through it all soon,” Bucky said. “We’ve just got to re-adjust to each other first.”

“You still want to kiss them both though, right?” Natasha asked.

“I want a future with both of them,” Bucky said. He shrugged and looked up at Steve who was pushing his home fries around. “Wouldn’t mind the kissing though.”

Steve glanced up at him, eyes warm, smile wide.

Natasha started humming _Why Do Fools Fall in Love_ while Steve choked on air. That was Bucky’s cue to find the bathroom before he ruined his stoic reputation by giggling like a child in front of strangers. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in love,” Steve said to Natasha as Bucky approached their booth. 

She’d switched sides and was picking at Bucky’s pancakes.

“I think the idea of a heteronormative monogamous romantic love is pointless for myself especially when an alien trickster god uses my personal relationships as something with which to threaten or taunt me. I also know and recognize my life choices are not everybody else’s. You three? That’s going to work.”

Steve laughed. “You seem awfully invested, Natasha. Got money riding on it?”

“Pride,” Natasha said. She glanced up at Bucky and smirked. “Besides, it’s been cute, watching Sam and Bucky fall in love with each other and totally act like that’s not what’s happening. Better than cable. Granted, they still weren’t as fast as you and Sam; pretty sure you broke the land-speed record on that one, Cap. They care about each other and more importantly they trust each other. Bucky let Sam stitch up his wound because _you_ trusted Sam. You have to recognize that significance.”

“I just don’t know how I deserve all this? It’s too good, right?” Steve asked.

It took all of Bucky’s quite impressive willpower to not smack Steve one upside his head. Natasha looked like she was contemplating a similar plan of attack.

“Everyone you knew and loved from your younger years is either dead, overcoming decades of torture and brainwashing, or has Alzheimer’s. The organization you died while trying to destroy has taken over control of the world you fought for. What part of that makes this seem like a fairy tale?”

“Chicken Little is actually a pessimist,” Bucky said as he took Natasha’s former seat. He flicked the back of Steve’s ear. “Never did believe he deserves anything good.”

“Ow,” Steve said as he rubbed his ear and poked Bucky in the side.

“The historians would never believe me,” Natasha said as she watched them. 

Bucky grinned as he recalled a fond story with the Howling Commandos. “You should hear the one where Steve walked through a certain Belgian village stark naked just because Dugan said he didn’t have the balls to do it.”

“Anyway,” Steve said as he shifted in his seat. “Back to the reason for this meeting. Natasha, your advice?”

“Look,” Natasha said. “Sam’s probably not going to make the first move if that’s what you’re waiting on. I think between the two of you he’s done enough hand holding, and you can’t really try the subtle approach here. Sam pretty obviously wants both of you, but probably thinks it’s not a possibility considering back in your day the army was still _segregated_ much less open to polyamorous relationships between three men. Also because Steve hasn’t watched _Top Gun_ yet.”

“What does _Top Gun_ have to do with anything?” Steve asked.

“You’ve clearly lost that loving feeling,” Bucky said. “How have you not watched _Top Gun_ yet? _Danger Zone_ is Sam’s ringtone.”

“It’s on my list,” Steve said. “Besides, isn’t that Navy?”

“It’s still a formative part of Sam’s childhood experience and why he decided aviator sunglasses were the only ones for him” Bucky said.

“I know what we’re doing this afternoon,” Natasha said. “I’ll bring the popcorn. And the duct tape.”

“Why do you need duct tape?” Steve asked.

“You talk during movies,” Natasha said.

*************

“The night terrors are giving way to what I think are actual full memories of my time post all _this_ ,” Bucky said holding up his metal arm. “It’s not just the muscle memory stuff and my kill count. It’s little things like finding a stray dog a home while on the run, and places I ate, and friggin’ cemeteries I visited. They’re fleeting though.”

“You could always write them down,” Dr. Reyes said. “A dream journal is something I’ve recommend in the past.”

“What about for me?”

“You want to remember,” Dr. Reyes said. It’s something she’d asked him until he’d affirmed it as fact over many sessions.

“But I don’t want to be just my memories,” Bucky said. “The good and the bad—it would destroy me if I gave way now to be just what I _was_. I still want to know for clarity’s sake.” He smiled and pointed to his favorite plaque on her wall. “Maybe we’ll find wormhole technology buried deep inside my brain.”

“Just stay away from spaceships and black holes,” Dr. Reyes said.

“And men named Scorpius,” Bucky said. 

When Steve picked him up on his bike, Bucky asked him to stop by CVS so he could pick up a basic composition notebook.

“Natasha thinks we should have a sparring match tomorrow,” Steve said as they sorted through the options.

Bucky flexed his shoulders. “Haven’t really had a proper workout since…then.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Me too.”

Bucky finally settled on one spiral bound and one standard composition book. He grabbed a pack of star stickers for Alana, some new glue sticks for Alia, and a pack of sharpies for Aisha. 

“Inventory,” he said at Steve’s look. “I created a checklist system for the nieces’ crafts. Gives me something to do during the day.” 

“Christ,” Steve said as he hung his head, blushed, and shifted on his feet. “We _really_ need to get this all worked out.”

“What worked out?” Sam asked. He laughed as both Steve and Bucky flinched. “Saw your bike outside, figured one or both of you would be in here.” He looked at the pile in Bucky’s basket. “Inventory?”

“Or our master plan to woo you with shiny stickers and permanent markers,” Bucky said.

“Where do the glue sticks come in?” Sam asked.

“It’s not a complete master plan,” Bucky said. He looked to Steve who was biting his lip so hard he was surely going to bleed soon. “Anyone have dinner requests? I was thinking tacos.”

“Fish tacos,” Sam said. He touched Steve’s wrist. “You okay?”

“Nearly perfect,” Steve said. 

“Nearly?” Sam asked.

“Working on it,” Bucky said.

Sam gestured to the basket. “Master plan?”

“Something like that,” Bucky said. He brushed past Steve and grabbed the keys to his bike. “I think I’d rather grab a slice. Why don’t you two go out? It’s been awhile since I’ve rode on my own.”

“Do you even have a license?” Steve asked.

“Do you _really_ want to know the answer?” Bucky asked. “Go on, you two. Enjoy the night. Celebrate.”

Sam looked concerned as he glanced between the two of them. “You’re sure everything’s okay?”

Bucky grinned. “We’re good,” he promised. 

“Be safe,” Steve said. “Wear your helmet.”

“Oh, like you do?” Bucky asked. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen Aisha’s power point on traffic safety for the lecture she’s going to give you next week. Drive careful, okay? Don’t let anyone rip the steering wheel out of your car.”

“You’re such an ass,” Sam said. He gave Bucky a quick hug. “Call if you need _anything_. Even if we have to tow the bike or something. We’ll pick you up.”

“I promise to call when I get home and won’t stay out past my curfew,” Bucky said. He tilted his head toward Steve. “Don’t let that one get into any fights. Can’t take him anywhere.” He waved them both off. “Go.”

Sam finally started to move, and Steve followed, but they both turned to give Bucky one last look before leaving. Bucky just shook his head and laughed to himself. 

Nearly perfect.

Nearly.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky woke when he felt the bed shift. Sam was still asleep beside him, snoring away with a leg hooked around Bucky’s own and an arm thrown across the empty space that still held a vaguely-Steve shaped indentation. 

“Go back to sleep,” Steve said from the doorway.

“Like hell,” Bucky said. 

He saw Steve shrug and shuffle out of the room. Bucky spared a glance for Sam—still lost to his dreams—and carefully slid out of bed. He left the door ajar, just in case Sam had a bad night and woke up looking for the two of them. Bucky flipped the light on in the guest bathroom as a hint to their path. He left a sock in the hall too. He laughed to himself as he thought about breadcrumbs and reading bedtime stories both in this time and almost a century ago. 

Steve was at the kitchen table. A battered sketchbook was flipped open, but Steve’s hands were absent pen, pencil, or charcoal. 

Bucky got them both a glass of water and sat down. He looked at the face on the page, lines drawn with care and attention to detail.

Peggy. Much older than the image in Bucky’s memories and the film clips from the Smithsonian. It must’ve been how she looked now, but those eyes were instantly recognizable. He could recall Steve drawing her face plenty of times—how many times since Steve came back? How many times since he met her again? 

Bucky looked back up at Steve. There was a smile there—sad, guilty, and full of blame. Bucky shook his head. Steve shrugged. 

“I know she married and had a family and a life, but I can’t stop thinking about how she deserved _more_. And I keep thinking part of it’s my fault,” he said.

“You know she would never want you to feel that way,” Bucky said.

“We both know logic doesn’t have much to do with emotions.” He flipped through the pages to a younger Peggy. She seemed alive on the page with a gun in hand, and only one small tendril of hair out of place. “Do you know what they had her doing after the war?”

Bucky did. He’d done his research on everyone. He knew Steve still needed to speak though, so he shook his head again. 

“A glorified secretary in Brooklyn. Peggy fucking Carter treated incompetent because _I_ was the jackass who got filmed with a picture of her in my compass. She saved my ass on multiple occasions and they had her filing paperwork; a lady who basically told a General in her own professional way to fuck-off on the regular. That’s not the life any of us fought and bleed for, you know? Then she hooks up with Howard and Dum-Dum and they start SHIELD and those _bastards_ turned it rotten from inside out. I can’t let that go, Buck.”  
“Hey,” Bucky said. He tapped one of Steve’s fists until they both relaxed. “No one’s asking you to, Steve. Me and Sam? We’re not going to stop you. We’re both here to help you, whatever you need.”

“You don’t want to fight again,” Steve said.

“What I want and what’s actually going to happen? Those are two different things, and I’m really fucking used to not getting what I want, but doing what I have to regardless.” Bucky knew he’d have to fight again. The war was never really over, it just come back with different names and locations.

Steve frowned and looked at his hands. “You all deserved better. All the boys too. I paid my respects, but grave stones don’t say a hell of a lot back.”

“Haven’t been to see the boys yet,” Bucky admitted. “Haven’t even been to see Becca. I checked out the place she’s living now. It’s nice. She ended up writing children’s books.”

“I have the series,” Steve said. “Well, I did in my old apartment until I gave them to the nieces. Alia told me they were _cool for some old books_.”

“Kids these days,” Bucky said. He waited for it, and finally got the hints of a true smile. 

Steve could look so young, and he was sure even people today made the mistake of thinking he was still a kid. Even the ones who knew better. Bucky had read their articles theorizing how Steve was just a twenty-something who lost his own world just a few years ago by his own measure. They were right, but that was oversimplifying it. They didn’t fully get what it meant to be twenty-something back then. Steve had been old even back when he was still young; had to be when your parents were vets of the Great War. They grew up during the Great Depression, and started work younger than they should have; Bucky did it for some pocket money while Steve had done it to help his family. Then he lost his parents, all while battling his own body for each breath. It made Steve grow old before his time. 

Then they had their own war.

They’d both taken missions to keep each other alive. That’s all it really was back then for people on the front. Grand meaning, save the world and the Allies? Sure, they had that handed down to them in official memos from higher up the chain. Save your buddy? That was the real driving force. Bucky knew he wasn’t even living for himself back then, and he knew Steve was much the same—for Peggy, for Bucky, for the boys, and the memory of a man who gave him a chance.

“We just needed you to come home again,” Sam said. His voice was rough, and his eyes tired. “Not permanently, of course. You were staying away for the reasons you felt were right, and maybe they were, but it was time to come home. None of us are children here, Steve. We know how this world works. We know what you have to do, what _we_ are going to have to do in the coming months and years. Shit will hit the fan, and we’ll be there, because we’re your team.”

“Respect the decisions the people around me make,” Steve said. He looked at the sketchbook and smiled. “A lesson I’m still learning.” He looked up at them and blanched. “Not because I don’t respect all of you, and your skills, and your strengths.”

“Because you still don’t think you’re worth all of it,” Sam said. “We know.”

Bucky lightly punched Steve’s arm. “We do. I’m sure Natasha would agree if she was here.”

Sam looked at the windows. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s waiting outside just to pop in at the right moment.”

Steve smirked. “She’s not going to appear if you’re looking for her, Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes and flipped the kitchen lights off. “Sorry, didn’t know Natasha was really Santa Claus. Bed. Everyone. Now. I’ve gotten used to two human furnaces around me while ‘m sleeping and I’ve got at least another three hours before I have to be up.”

**********

Bucky couldn’t really wrap tape around the knuckles of his metal hand, and it’s not like that made gloves that could accommodate it, so he’d just have to make sure it only made contact with the shield or the mats. He shook out his arms and started to stretch as he waited for Steve.

Sparring had honestly been a struggle for Bucky since he got back to being anything but a weapon. He refused to practice with Sam—fearing a possible slip into the Winter Soldier’s headspace—and Natasha refused to fight him at anything less than his best. Muscle memory was a hell of a fucking thing, and even when Bucky tried to control his punches on a plain old sand bag, he ended up sending them flying; didn’t matter if it was the metal arm or the one he had since birth. 

“Sam’s running about fifteen minutes late,” Steve said as he walked in, bag thrown over his shoulder. 

He smelled like rain and ozone. Bucky glanced at the high windows of the basement gym and saw the tell-tale streaks on the glass. 

“Only got a bit of the downpour,” Steve said. He started to strip. “Natasha might drop by later.” He pulled a plain white t-shirt over his head. “She says we’re good to go, if we want.”

Bucky tried to smile. He could feel it turn into a grimace.

“Nervous?” Steve asked as jeans got traded for sweatpants.

“Aren’t you?” Bucky asked. 

“Feel like I’m going to puke,” Steve admitted. He grabbed the roll of tape and threw it to Bucky. “Wrap my hands?”

“No gloves?”

Steve shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a traditionalist.”

“That’s the biggest line of bullshit I’ve heard today,” Bucky said. 

He started to wrap Steve’s hands as he thought about them, Sam, and all they could possibly be together. He was clinging on to those goods thoughts, rather than allowing himself to think how badly it could turn, and how he didn’t deserve any good thing he wanted. 

“Hey,” Steve said. He lightly tapped Bucky’s chin. “I’ll jump if you will.”

A laughed worked its way out, past all Bucky’s doubts. “Feel like I’ve heard that before,” he muttered.

**********

It was after the tenth or twelfth time that Bucky and Steve had slammed each other into the mats when Sam walked over to them. Steve had Bucky in a headlock, and Bucky was about to flip them both over when Sam just stared at them wide-eyed and wide-mouthed.

“Sam?” Steve asked.

“You okay?” Bucky asked. He tried to break Steve’s lock, but he was holding tight. Bucky did the adult thing and pinched him on the ass. He laughed when Steve stumbled down onto the mats in shock. 

He laughed even harder when Steve swept Bucky’s feet out from under him and sent him flying onto the ground. Bucky shook the loose strands of hair out of his face and tried to kick at Steve, but stopped because Sam had cleared his throat.

“You two are like overgrown puppies,” Sam said. “I take back all the prior compliments I paid to your grace, agility, and skill. You’re just two brawlers.”

Bucky exchanged a look with Steve who shrugged and then effortlessly rolled to his feet. He offered Bucky a hand-up, and they both refrained from tumbling the other to the ground again. Bucky considered it progress. His body felt loose again, even if his mind was still jumbled and the slight tension in Sam’s shoulders wasn’t helping much. 

“Learned how to fight in the back alleys before the Army got us,” Steve explained. “Some things can’t be trained out of you.”

“Or shocked out of you,” Bucky said. He rolled his eyes at the blank faces in front of him; even Natasha looked frozen in her seat. “Jesus, if I can’t joke about what was done to me, who can?”

“You’re amazing, Buck,” Steve said as he ruffled Bucky’s hair.

“Fuck off,” Bucky said as he swatted Steve’s hand away. 

“You two,” Sam said. He shuffled closer to the both of them. “You’re going to be so much combined trouble, aren’t you?”

Bucky knew—could see it in the tilt of Sam’s head and the way his eyes lingered on the two of them—this wasn’t just a general statement for shits and giggles.

“We’re worth it,” Bucky said.

“I bet,” Sam said. He opened his mouth then stopped, shook his head, and laughed. “All those jokes about _only if Steve’s okay with it_ , they weren’t just jokes?”

Bucky could feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck and hoped he didn’t look as red as he suddenly felt. “Had to test the waters,” he said.

“Right,” Sam said. He turned to Steve. “And you?”

Steve looked about how Bucky felt. He rubbed the back of his neck, but kept his eyes locked on Sam. “Peggy really took the initiative between us, and that was all right before I downed a plane, even though I was falling in love with her and had already admired her for over a year. It took me three months of jogging and observation to flirt with you.” He pointed to Bucky. “We were young together.”

Bucky thanked the god he still debated on believing in that Sam looked far more amused than any other emotion. It was better than flat out rejection.

“So two of the greatest strategic minds of the past century and you just planned to what? Wait it out until I made the first move?” Sam asked. 

“Natasha,” Steve blurted out.

Bucky nudged him in the ribs. “What he really means is that we were going to give it another week of Natasha’s observations before we decided to talk. We didn’t want to fuck anything up, you know?”

Sam shook his head. “You’re both kind of ridiculous.”

Bucky shrugged while Steve smiled. There was no denying the truth, and both of them had allowed it to drag for longer than absolutely necessary. They weren’t cowards, and he knew Sam didn’t think they were. It was clear, with the fond smile on his face and that look in his eyes, that Sam knew and understood _why_ they had to be cautious, even if they were living in a new world and a new age. The year on the calendar didn’t change learned or re-learned behavior, especially in Steve’s situation where vocal members of society dictated what Captain America should be; no care really paid for the man behind the mask and shield.

Sam got it though. He wasn’t running away. He wasn’t telling them no. He looked like he was just waiting, and someone had to ask. 

“So—uh,” Bucky said. He could feel the heat on his face and knew he had to be obviously blushing now and he _really_ thought he should’ve been over shit like that at his age. He got it though; it was different when it really mattered. 

“Bucky?” Sam asked.

Bucky looked between Sam and Steve and took a deep breath. “So, you wanna?”

“Absolutely fucking ridiculous,” Sam said as he wrapped an arm around the both of them. He gripped the back of both their necks and looked at them. “Yes. It was always going to be yes.”

Natasha’s delighted laugh filled the room. They all ignored the flash as she took pictures.

**********

If Steve’s kisses were supposed to feel familiar, than the bastard version of the super-soldier serum that allowed for a mostly rapid heal of Bucky’s fried mind had fucked him over again. He didn’t remember anything like this; not the clench of shaking fingers and happy soft laughs, and how carefully Steve held himself, until Bucky tugged him closer and asked for more.

Then there was Sam, who let Bucky bite and soothe at his skin while Sam’s hands clenched at Bucky’s skin and left bruises Bucky _wanted_ so he had proof. Sam, who clenched a hand in Bucky’s hair and _tugged_ , and laughed as he nuzzled Bucky’s throat while Steve ran his hands between the two of them.

Bucky knew he had been touched starved; knew he had cherished each slight brush of someone else’s skin against his own, even if it was just a handhold. He knew he was okay with allowing himself to feel desire again—to _want_ in a way that had been taken from him. Sam and Steve gave their affection and care willingly, freely, and only ever asked for what Bucky wanted to offer. 

It’d been a long time since he felt so centered; mind so quiet. He just focused on Sam, Steve, and the feel of both of them under his hands; how Steve jumped and smiled at the feel of the metal fingers, and how Sam looked down on him with wide, happy eyes. His ears were filled with the sound of their breaths, soft murmured words of encouragement, louder groans, and gasps. He leaned into the strength of Sam’s hands and Steve’s shoulders, and let himself let go.

Steve pushed some hair out of Bucky’s face. “Think we stuck the landing?” he asked.

“Ten out of ten,” Bucky said

“Do I want to know?” Sam asked. He had a content smile on his face, looked more relaxed than Bucky had ever seen him, here in what truly felt like _their_ bed now.

“Eh, who needs to jump when we got a man who can fly,” Steve said.

**********

“I’m thinking of seeing a doc about my arm,” Bucky said. He smirked at Dr. Reyes. “It’s not that I don’t adore you, sweetheart, but you can’t run a diagnostic on the machine.”

“Call me sweetheart again and my foot will go up your ass, Barnes.” Dr. Reyes folded her hands over her lap as she sat across from him. “How are the cooking lessons going?”

“ _Food Network_ is amazing, though I watch the Public Broadcast stuff too. Sam took me to that _Bed, Bath, and Beyond_ place. I bought a bread maker.” And about ten other appliances that Sam claimed they’d need a bigger house for, but he had his own pasta maker now. “I’ve yet to give anyone, including myself, food poisoning.”

“A ringing endorsement for your skills,” Dr. Reyes said. She’d smiled at him though. “The notebooks working for you?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He smiled thinking of his current one. “Sam’s nieces decorate them for me. Alana favors the fuzzy stickers, so the latest one is covered in farm animals. Steve built a bookshelf for them in the garage. The nieces decorated that one too. If one of them doesn’t at least keep art as a side project, I think we’ll all be devastated.”

Bucky thought of all the words on those pages, most of them in code just in case. They weren’t as easy a reference as what Sam once dubbed his _murder board_ , but they were easier to hide and burn. 

Bucky was adjusting to his life now. He’d never stop being what the world had made him though; he’d never stop treating _some_ things like a mission.

*********

Bucky liked T’Challa. He could sound a little arrogant at times, sure, but if Bucky was a technological genius royal, he’d probably be too. Besides, T’Challa was being extremely generous with his time, resources, knowledge, and damn fine coffee as he examined Bucky’s arm and brain.

“Not to treat you like an object, Mr. Barnes, but your arm is fascinating. It’s beyond all the technology out there, even by Stark’s standards.”

“You made guys fly via wings,” Bucky said.

“Didn’t say it was beyond me,” T’Challa said. His perfectly serious face was ruined by the hints of a grin. “Honestly though—this is decades ahead of where we are _now_. For the 1940s? This was at least a century ahead.”

Bucky knew he should’ve probably acted more surprised. He was still living and breathing in 2014 though, so to say his arm was basically 1940s magic was probably at the bottom of the list of things that amazed him now.

“They used tech and science to make a super soldier,” he said.

T’Challa looked away from the 3-D rendered specs of Bucky’s arm and brain. “They still haven’t managed to replicate it,” he said. “You are the closest they’ve come without the side-effects seen in Isaiah Bradley’s brain damage. Though Captain Bradley came before all of you, of course. Following Mr. Rogers, you remain the closest to the original formula.”

“Outside of Josiah,” Bucky said.

“Yes,” T’Challa agreed. 

“Doesn’t feel like something to be proud of,” Bucky muttered.

“Perhaps it’s not,” T’Challa said. “Though I do think it might prove to be its own blessing in disguise.”

“Really?”

T’Challa shrugged as he finished his assessment. “I like hope.”

Bucky caught Sam, Steve, and Natasha out of the corner of his eyes. They were talking and laughing with Monica, T’Challa’s wife, over the remains of lunch. Would any of them still be here if it wasn’t for the fact that Sergeant James Banes became the Winter Solider? Would this city even still be here?

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Hope’s not too bad.”

“Not at all,” T’Challa said. He gave Bucky a speculative look. “When you go outside, you usually wear long sleeves and jackets, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “When I’m at home, I don’t care, but who walks around with a metal arm?”

T’Challa looked wistful for a moment. “I know a cop in New York City with one. You’re right though; it’s not a very common sight and clearly a major identifier. I’m working on a synthetic skin sleeve for prosthetics. You want to try one out? Tell me how it feels? Just tell me if it causes problems with your range of motion, or starts melting, or can’t maintain normal levels of your activity.”

“So, an experiment,” Bucky said. 

“Only if you want,” T’Challa said. “I’m not going to take my offer to help you off the table if you don’t want to try it. My work on your arm is non-conditional. It has nothing to do with Sam either. It’s what I like to do. It will be a challenge in its own to keep me busy while I hide down here and play the science teacher to my jazz singer wife.”

Bucky couldn’t deny that it would make it easier to blend into the crowd. Blending in was sort of vital to his survival with all of Hydra still out there.

“Sure,” he said. “Why the hell not?

**********

Natasha was bored that morning, which usually spelled disaster for Bucky’s kitchen appliances, so they decided to track Sam down to his indoor track.

“Who’s that?” Bucky asked as they watched Sam stop and talk to some young guy. He was around Sam’s height, maybe taller, with a shaved head and some trimmed beard and mustache combo that was apparently common now. Bucky had seen a lot of men sporting a similar style even if he personally didn’t get the appeal. Bucky knew the guy probably wasn’t _that_ young. He just had the kind of smile that made Bucky feel each one of his years.

“Oh,” Natasha said. Her smile was crooked and pleased. “Antoine Triplett. Former agent of our former employer. One of the good guys, so don’t worry for Sam’s safety. Antoine’s got family connections to the agency’s establishment from before certain scientists were brought into the ranks. He’s a specialist.”

“That some kind of official badass?” Bucky asked.

“They’ve had extensive training,” Steve said. “I’ve never heard of him though.”

“Imagine that,” Natasha said. “Specialists were the best in field ops. They spent their careers trying to beat my records.” She tapped Bucky on the nose before he could ask. “Only Barton has beaten me in the sharpshooter qualifications, as he should; that’s _his_ specialty.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed as he stretched out his arms. “We should go introduce ourselves.”

“It would be the proper thing to do,” Bucky agreed. He turned to Natasha who had her phone out. “Do I want to know?”

Natasha shook her head. “You’re not ready to meet Darcy yet.” She pocketed her phone. “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry about how long it took me to update. A month long delay was definitely not in my plans for this fic.


	6. Chapter 6

There was one thing Bucky always knew—had it ingrained deep in his bones—that would always be there no matter who was behind the wheel in his head. _Adapt and survive_. It was a mantra for him, the man who was a deadly sniper before he’d been frozen for decades and had choice taken from him, before he fell from a train, and before he wound up captured and experimented on. 

He had his bad days—hell, bad _weeks_ —and there were times it felt like the bad outweighed the good, but he was okay with it. Bucky knew that _he_ was still in control these days, still the one calling his own shots, and that was really fucking important. It didn’t change the fact that he still had anger simmering just under the surface; for Sam and his losses and the training that had shaped him while also telling him his life was somehow less valuable than others; for Steve and the loss of what he could have had with Peggy, the life he _should_ have gotten, instead of decades on ice and a fight he could never leave; for Natasha and the world that made children assets and assassins; for the fact that in the end Zola got what he’d always wanted out of Bucky. 

Some days Bucky even let himself be angry for all the shit done to him. Dr. Reyes and Sam both stressed how it was not a case of self-pity. Bucky still hated it regardless of logic, treatment techniques and self-help books. On those days Steve would nudge him in the shoulder, drive them both to the gym, and they would train and fight until they were bleeding, bruised, and something that resembled tired but felt more like world-weary. 

The bad days didn’t detract from all the okay, good, and great ones. Bucky could still struggle with his own guilt over what he did—control or no control—and bake cookies for Aisha’s school fundraiser, run on Saturday mornings with Alia and her dad as she trained for volleyball try-outs, carry Alana around on his shoulders at the Wilson Sunday Family Meal Extravaganza, laugh at Natasha’s dirty jokes, help Father Patel clean out the garden behind the church, and love Sam and Steve individually and together. 

Some days remained unpredictable and full of good and bad. Bucky knew that was another truth he needed to write on what was left of his soul.

***********

The day had started out as an okay one. He woke up hyper-aware of the sound of the shower and the smell of Steve’s preferred shampoo. Sam had been there, sitting up in bed, and gave Bucky a knowing nod. They all still had nightmares and it was rare for a night to go by when one of them slept all through rather than woke-up from memories or terrors. Bucky couldn’t recall what he’d dreamt this time; he just had that old regular feeling that came from looking at a target through his site. The adrenaline was still running through his body and he felt like he always did right before he finally took his shot.

He decided to pass on the coffee that morning. 

He’d rode along with Sam to work, took the Metro to his early morning meeting with Dr. Reyes, and decided to get a jog in while he waited for Steve to finish his voter registration volunteer work. He didn’t count on the rain. It’s not that rain bothered him, he even enjoyed it some days, but when he stepped into a convenience store to grab a bottle of water, he felt the cold of wet water on his skin, made worse by the air conditioning. He didn’t think about it at first, just shivered and walked to the coolers in the cramped store. The midday news rambled on in the background, garbled through cheap television speakers. He opened the cooler, and let it rest against the bare skin of his shoulder. 

He froze.

Bucky stepped away from the cooler and turned quick to keep from knocking into a too high shelf. He couldn’t see out to the street. His hands were shaking. He reached into his pocket and found his phone, his wallet, and a tiny figure from one of Alana’s games. He focused on that, the small cartoonish purple pony and the feel of the plastic in his hand. He took a deep breath, then another, and managed to open the cooler. He grabbed his water, walked on shaking legs to the front of the store, and paid. The cashier didn’t say anything, just gave him a blank look and waved the next person up as Bucky grabbed his water off the counter and shoved his change and the toy into his pocket. He kept himself focused on the glass window of the door, then the feel of fresh air on his face, then the sound of wet gravel crunching under his sneakers. 

Bucky walked to the open space behind the store next to the dumpsters and leaned against the wall. He took a round of deep, calming breaths. He waited until he could hear something other than his pulse beating in his ears. Then he called Sam. 

“Sam….I. Can you come get me?” He asked, words tumbling out slow. “I’m—fuck—the corner store near Dr. Reyes’ office. I’m outside. I stopped to get some of that fancy ass sugar water before meeting you. I just.” He took another deep breath, wet his suddenly dry lips, and closed his eyes. He could smell the city around him. Not the chamber. “Please, Sam?”

Over the line he could hear the echo of shoes slapping on tile.

“I’ll be right there,” Sam said. “Just keep breathing, okay Buck? I’m going to stay on the line with you.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. His body was still shaking. “I think I need to sit down. I’m going to have to throw these pants out.”

“Shit yourself?” Sam asked. 

It was a forced joke. Bucky appreciated the effort.

“Not yet. Maybe sitting in someone else’s shit. This place has so much dirt on the ground, Sam. Smells like sour milk. I guess that’s what I get for sitting by a dumpster.” 

He turned his head when he heard a small high-pitched sound. He expected to see a rat, mouse, or even a raccoon. 

“Bucky, you still with me?”

“Yeah,” he said. “There’s just something here. Hold on.”

“Bucky, no,” Sam said as Bucky pulled his phone away from his ear.

He looked around the corner of the dumpster and held out his flesh hand. A tiny black snout appeared and licked his knuckles.

“Huh,” Bucky said.

“Bucky!” Sam’s tinny voice yelled from the speaker.

“Sorry,” Bucky said. He grimaced even as he wiggled his fingers at the little nose under the metal. A paw came out—canine—and batted at him. “There’s a dog here.”

**********

“We’re at the vet,” Sam said into his phone. “No, I would’ve taken him to an actual surgeons I trust if that was the case. He’s fine. Steve, I promise you he’s fine, and if I’m telling you he’s fine, then he’s _fine_. What? No my overuse of the word doesn’t suggest I’m hiding something, Dr. Rogers. Bucky found a puppy.” He rolled his eyes and shot a smile at Bucky. “Yes, Rogers, that sort of rhymes.”

Bucky laughed even as Sam winced. 

“No, we can’t name it Cyclone,” Sam told Steve.

“I like that name,” Bucky said. He smiled as Sam gave him an unamused look. He turned back to the puppy and let her chew on his fingers. The sensors in his fingertips were having fun relaying the message to his mind of tiny puppy teeth. It tickled. He liked it.

“Steve, we need to make sure the dog isn’t sick,” Sam said. Bucky looked up at the sound Sam made. “Of course we won’t abandon a stray puppy, I just think---we don’t even have a fenced in yard. No, you can’t just make one. No, I don’t doubt your architectural eye or your building capabilities but it’s not exactly Lincoln Logs. We—no, Steve, don’t Google it. We need to find out.” Sam closed his eyes and sighed. “Fine, just don’t call anybody until _after_ we’ve talked to the vet, okay? Yeah, yeah we love you too. Try not to jump out of any windows while we’re gone.”

Sam pocketed his phone and shook his head. “He’s probably on his way to the pet store now.”

“Only so much he can fit on his bike at least,” Bucky said. He nudged Sam with his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked.

Bucky kissed his cheek. “Thanks for, you know.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. He rested a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Yeah, I do.”

**********

Second night full of memories disguised as nightmares resulted in a second straight day at Dr. Reyes’ office. She’d given him a _look_ when he told her about the previous afternoon and a grumbled order to at least call her the next time it happened.

“I don’t want Wilson trying to unravel my work with this kumbaya shit,” she’s said.

Bucky smiled, thankful once again to have an old battleaxe like Dr. Reyes in his life. 

“I know you can’t predict it—the flashbacks and the new triggers. I obviously don’t hang around walk-in freezers. I just didn’t expect wet skin and cold air to remind me of it.”

“Your fall,” Dr. Reyes said.

“No,” he said. His pulse quickened as he forced the words out. “The chamber. I don’t remember much of the fall, not really.” He waved his hand to explain. “Vague things like getting pulled through some snow, blood on the ground from my arm. Soviets—they pulled me out.” He tapped his forehead. “Recognized the fancy hats.”

Something passed across Dr. Reyes face—not pity. Clarity or remembrance of his history. “It was winter when you fell,” she said.

“Perfect code name, right? The found, unknown winter soldier in the mountains.” He could laugh about it now. He called it progress. “I think I’m like everyone else, though. I don’t like those dreams where you wake up in the middle of a fall. The chamber, though? I try not to think about it. I don’t like confined spaces. I can take the cramped city corners because I can still see the sky. I can feel it—the wind, the sunlight, the rain—on my skin. It lets me know I’m not back inside that place with just a small window to look out. I’m not frozen.”

He looked at his hands and curled his fingers. He remembered touching the glass. One last movement before he was suspended. He uncurled his fingers and smiled at the tiny piece of dog hair caught in one of the joints.

“We found a dog out there, behind the store. She’s a little thing, just fur and bones and huge, fluffy ears. I wouldn’t have found her if I hadn’t needed to be outside just then. I don’t really believe in fate or anything, Doc, but sometimes circumstances work out just right.”

“You plan on keeping your stray?”

“Maybe. Sam’s making noises about worms and rabies. We’re still waiting on some test results and the vet kept the dog overnight just in case. I think if everything checks out, it’ll be inevitable. Steve’s always liked dogs.” He shrugged. “It’s a house-wide decision though. I’ll be okay as long as I know she’s safe. She’s a fearless thing; wouldn’t want her to get hurt on the city streets.”

Dr. Reyes put down her pen. “Really, Barnes?”

He laughed. “Okay, maybe I’m more invested than that.”

“What’s her name?”

“Cyclone, maybe? Steve suggested it,” he said. 

“That’s a unique name,” Dr. Reyes said.

Bucky laughed. “It holds some sentimental value.” 

For just a moment he was back at Coney Island, lifetimes ago, salt water on his lips and the sound of Steve’s laughter wheezing out of his chest as he watched Bucky struggle with a piece of taffy.

**********

Riley’s gravestone was simple, solemn and to the point, like so many others in Arlington. It didn’t mention the stories Sam had told of the man who always had a smile on his face and a joke on his tongue even in the worst of times. It was just a plain white stone with a body below the ground, pictures protected in plastic bags glued to popsicle sticks stuck in the grass, and Sam kneeling at its base.

“Hey Tommy Wingman,” Sam said. “Got some people here to meet you. VIPs and all that for the hot shit you’ve always been.” 

Sam updated Riley on the past few months, voice smooth but speaking in its own type of code that allowed Sam confession without reveling any intel of worth to the eyes and ears surely watching them. Natasha kept glaring down one of the pillars in the distance. She tapped something on her wrist and a supposed groundskeeper in a white golf cart winced.

“Just a little static for the audience,” she said when both Bucky and Steve smiled at her.

Bucky wasn’t surprised at the surveillance, but he’d thought they’d be a little less obvious considering where they stood. Section 60. Sam had a permanent pass for vehicle gravesite visitation. There were others around them, both tourists and mourners. Men and women greeted each other as old friends as they tended to their loved ones gravesites and shared stories. Steve watched each and every one of them close and Bucky saw the twitching in his hands, the instinct to go over and talk to them. Natasha nudged him in the shoulder as a young family stopped a row over, one kid clutching a small replica Captain America shield in his hands as his mother traced the letters craved into the stone.

“Go,” Sam said breaking the silence around them. “It’s okay. You’ve met Riley before. Go on while Buck and Natasha come say hello.”

Bucky watched as Steve’s fingers gripped Sam’s shoulder and he pressed a soft kiss to Sam’s forehead. Sam’s smile was brittle, but accepting and understanding.

“Go,” Sam said. “Don’t make me push you over there, because I don’t think the world needs to see Captain America falling on his ass in a graveyard.”

Steve laughed. “Think you’re fast enough, Wilson?”

“Don’t test me, Rogers,” Sam said. “Go,” he said and this time Steve did. 

Bucky sat down beside Sam and wrapped his arm around Sam’s waist. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”

Natasha kneeled down on Sam’s other side. “Hello, Thomas. My name is Natalia,” she said.

**********

Bucky had focused more on cooking than baking, but as the leaves started to change, Sam spent hours talking about his favorite baked goods. Pecan pie, pumpkin pie, and apple crumble all were on Bucky’s list of future baking attempts. Steve and Natasha had graciously volunteered to try Bucky’s experiments.

“You know you can buy premade pie crusts,” Natasha said. “Filling too, though it doesn’t taste as good as this.”

Bucky carefully moved his bowl of sliced applies, brown sugar, and various spices away from her hands. “I have more control this way,” he said.

“True,” Natasha agreed. “It’s its own satisfaction to create something with your own hands.”

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. “I just hope they’ll be done and good enough for the huge family picnic.”

“That tomorrow?” Natasha asked. 

Bucky smiled. “Didn’t Steve give you your invitation? Or have you two been too busy tracking down all those cells and rumored new-SHIELD start-ups? Or is it Sharon?”

Natasha tilted her head. “Who’s Sharon?”

“The woman you’ve been seeing,” Bucky said. “Steve’s former neighbor.”

“Tap my phone?” Natasha asked. 

Bucky laughed. “Not my style, ‘Tasha. I saw you two on a lunch date when I went to the farmer’s market. She spotted me first. She’s good.”

“She has good instincts,” Natasha agreed. “I haven’t told Steve yet.”

“I figured. Does he know she’s Peggy’s niece?”

“Didn’t even know her name was Sharon until I told him,” Natasha said. “I figure it’s her story to tell.”

“Probably,” Bucky said. He dusted the flour off his hands and wiped them down on his apron before going to fridge and pulling off the glitter-covered piece of paper. He handed it to Natasha. “The invitation.”

She traced her finger over the stickers decorating it. “It says _To Uncle Sam’s Big Family_.”

“Yeah, you’re part of that,” Bucky said.

“He’s right,” Sam said as he came in through the back door. He was dripping sweat and went straight for the fridge. 

“Cup,” Bucky said. “Other people in this house also like to drink orange juice.”

Natasha scoffed even as she handed Sam a mug. “Really, Barnes? You’ve surely swallowed his—”

“Natasha,” Bucky warned.

**********

Even before the war changed everything, Bucky never thought he’d see a day where he’d be swinging on a hammock in a spacious backyard with a young child cuddled in his arms. Even his darkest nightmares could’ve never predicted the twisted path of his life, and he couldn’t say he didn’t have a world of regrets and wishes to change what was, but he already had wasted years and didn’t want to spend even longer dwelling on it all. He knew there would be those bad days and it was pointless to fight it. Moments like this though felt like peace; a reward that part of him would always think he didn’t deserve, but one he’d take nonetheless.

The Wilson-Burton Family Picnic Extravaganza had finally wound down after a day that saw what had to be half the neighborhood stopping by Selah’s house. It was just the family now. Steve was helping Simon with the clean-up, listening intently to Simon’s advice on scouring the grill grates. Alia was reviewing her cheer routine with Sarah (and Bucky smiled as he remembered Sam bemoaning his little niece trying out for cheerleading already) while Aisha and Natasha laughed as they tried to out black-flip each other. Sam was recording it all while Selah messed around with different music tracks blaring from the speakers attached to the stereo. 

“Oh, there are some old memories,” Sam called as Selah settled on a track.

The only lyrics Bucky could hear sounded like _push it_ , but it was apparently well known to the older generations of Wilsons. Aisha and Alia looked as confused as Bucky felt. Alana didn’t even stir from her place in Bucky’s arms. 

Joe Burton-Wilson laughed as he joined Bucky, passing him a bottle of water as he took in the look on Bucky’s face.

“I take it Sam hasn’t reached Salt-N-Peppa in his musical education lessons?” he asked.

“No,” Bucky said.

Joe gestured with his own bottle to the dance routine now taking place on the lawn. “Selah and Sam know the whole thing. It’s actually pretty accurate to the video. Remind me to pull up YouTube before you leave so you can watch it.” He grinned as Selah and Sam both twisted, turned, and bent down. “Never gets old watching the Wilson Talent Show.”

“Hell of a family,” Bucky agreed. 

“Yeah,” Joe said as he caressed the top of Alana’s head. He looked up at Bucky. “Yeah, we are.”

Bucky nodded.

Message received. Loud and clear.

**********

“Got what you wanted.”

Bucky looked up from his crossword puzzle as Natasha plopped down next to him on the couch. He hadn’t heard any of the doors or windows open.

“Through the attic space?” he asked.

Natasha shrugged. “That would be telling.” She threw an envelope into his lap. “Congratulations, you’re officially a citizen again, though _James Wilson_ is a little telling, isn’t it.” 

“It’s inconspicuous,” Bucky said.

“It’s adorable,” Natasha countered. She poked him in the side. “Does Sam know you went and took his last name?”

“It’s a common last name,” Bucky said. “And _Rogers_ would’ve been too obvious.”

“Whatever you say, Jimmy Wilson.”

Bucky glared at the name. “Don’t.”

“Aww, come on, Jimmy,” she said. She managed to ruffle his hair before he scooted away. “I think it’s a sweet sentiment along with being very easy to hide. Nothing stands out about the name. Where’s the address though?”

It was an old plot of family land still in Becca’s name, somewhere in the Mid-Hudson River Valley. He doubted anyone still went out there, but it was a viable address. No one had any reason to look. Becca was living in some swanky retirement village in North Carolina and he still didn’t know where the rest of their family had managed to relocate themselves. No one was still in Brooklyn; Bucky was okay with that. He wasn’t really the man they knew or remembered anymore. He could never have been that boy again, even if he’d come back seventy years ago. 

“Consider it your homework,” he said. 

“You know I’ll find out,” Natasha said.

“I don’t doubt it,” Bucky agreed. He waved the paper in his hand. “It’s a brain teaser.”

“Cute,” Natasha said. She looked down at her phone as an alert went off. “Guess I won’t be home for dinner then. Where’s Blondie?”

Bucky pointed to the bedroom. “Shower.”

“Alone?” Natasha asked.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “We are three separate individuals who have our own lives and habits and are perfectly capable of showering without each other, among other things.”

“Uh-huh,” Natasha said. “And Sam is?”

“Walking Cyclone,” Bucky said. 

“I’ll wait until he gets back then,” Natasha said. “Barton should be okay for another hour or two.”

Bucky knew the name from files he’d reviewed. He knew more of the man from stories Natasha and Steve had shared. He still didn’t have an opinion, and was trying to hold off until he met him. Bucky knew it was only a matter of time before this whole little peaceful arrangement of theirs changed. 

Steve’s long-work weekends had stretched to work weeks-at-time and it felt like more and more Hydra cells, and other splinter groups and factions, were popping up around the world at an alarming rate. Someone had to fill the power vacuum left by SHIELD and Hydra. Steve and Natasha flying off to places unknown to meet up with their contacts, or Avenger buddies, or allies in deep cover, had started to become as normal as the weekly grocery trip. Bucky knew eventually the whole mess would land right on their doorstep. He only felt a little selfish for wishing that day would be long in the future.

***********

Sometimes the bad days truly surprised him. It wasn’t even a bad day, so much as a bad moment. Bucky had spent the day playing with Cyclone, helping Steve go through the veritable stacks of intel he’d grabbed from his last mission, and looking forward to when Sam got home and they could all shut the world out and just be _here_ for at least the length of a heartbeat and a deep breath.

He made plans for dinner; a nice quiet one between the three of them, and possibly Natasha. He asked Steve to ask Sam to pick up some bread while he got sauce and butter everywhere on his hands and t-shirt, and flipped Steve off as he pulled off his shirt to mop up some of the mess that had gotten on the floor. Bucky didn’t cook clean.

“Sam’s brining Natasha,” Steve said.

“I figured,” Bucky said.

“And Clint,” Steve said.

That caused Bucky to pause. “I should get changed.” He kept his head down as he started to clean-up in earnest.

“Buck?” Steve asked. He wandered closer to him, but still gave Bucky space. “I trust Clint, if you’re worried. Natasha does too.”

“Still a stranger,” Bucky said. He tried to smile. “He sounds kind of like a cocky asshole.”

“Just up your alley then,” Steve said.

Bucky reached over and tapped the back of Steve’s head. “Sounds more like your type.”

“Must’ve just grown used to it,” Steve said with a fond smile.

“Jackass,” Bucky said. He looked at the clock. They still had another half-hour until Sam should return, but if Natasha was driving he’d need to cut that estimate down to fifteen minutes. He nudged Steve. “Go set the table.”

“Please,” Steve prompted.

“And thank you,” Bucky answered. 

Steve kissed the tip of Bucky’s ear before he grabbed a stack of plates. 

“Don’t forget to make the napkins fancy like Alia showed you,” he called after him.

“I’ll make the best cloth napkin swans you’ve ever seen,” Steve promised. 

They worked in companionable silence, only the clink of silverware and cookware and the quiet hum of music in the background filled the house as they worked. When Cyclone started to whine and wag her tail, Bucky knew Sam was close to home. She always seemed to sense him even before he pulled into the driveway. 

“Someone dropped in on me today,” Sam said by way of greeting. 

Natasha kneeled to grab Cyclone and carried her over to the couch. They both settled down and Bucky smiled as he heard the tv turn-on and immediately go to one of the cartoon channels. 

Bucky studied the stranger in the doorway. Clint Barton. Master archer, trained assassin, former freelancer merc, child of a shitty background, an extremely important person to Natasha, a person she _trusted_ with herself, and Steve still fought beside and considered a friend. Sam had brought him home, and Bucky trusted Sam’s judgment and instincts. 

He had short hair, faint wrinkles around his eyes, healing cuts on his face, and a sheepish tilt to his shoulders to go with a cocky grin. 

“Clint,” Steve said with a smile a mile wide as he moved forward with a hand held out. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, ‘Tasha’s been telling me to get down here.” Clint took Steve’s hand and pulled him into a hug. He pulled back and nodded at Bucky. “Hey, it’s another mindfucked friend. I only had it for a week at most, but we can both hash out that whole inadvertently working for Hydra thing.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said. He motioned at them all to follow him to the kitchen. “Wash-up and sit down. Grubs up, Natasha if you’re done with your _Scooby-Doo_.”

“I’ll be there at the commercial break,” she called back.

“It’s your empty plate,” Bucky replied. He looked down at the mess of flour and dough on his clothes. “I really need to go change.”

“I think Steve can entertain our guests,” Sam said. 

“Is that your dog?” Clint asked as he spotted Cyclone curled up with Natasha “Can I pet it?”

“It’s your hand,” Bucky said as he walked past him to the bedroom. “Though Natasha may bite before Cyclone does.”

He left the others to their laughter and the fading sounds of Steve and Sam bragging about all the tricks Cyclone knew. Bucky quietly closed the bedroom door behind him, opened the curtains on the window and walked back to the middle of the room. He stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Bucky knew progress and baselines and good and bad headspaces were things that did, could, and would change. He still didn’t expect to be so rattled by the random appearance of Clint Barton in his home. He shouldn’t have been bothered at all. Barton was a man both Steve and Natasha trusted with their lives and their vulnerabilities. He’d had his head fucked around with too. Regardless, he was still a deadly efficient master assassin with his muddy boots on Bucky’s living room floor. No amount of smiles and whining to Natasha and questions about petting Cyclone could take away the fact that Bucky _knew_ Barton had a spot on Pierce’s list. Not to be taken out, no, but to be recruited.

Clint had made a choice though, over and over again, to fight on the same side as Steve and Natasha. The choice was significant. 

Sam found him as he pulled on a proper shirt.

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Better get used to Steve’s co-workers and new teammates showing up. I’m sure they all want to meet us. Well, me,” he said. He smiled at Sam. “I know you’ve met a few of them.”

“Just Natasha, Dr. Banner, and now Clint. You’re worried about meeting the others?”

“I killed Tony Stark’s parents,” Bucky said. He may not have been in control of his own mind, but he’d still been the weapon. He wouldn’t ever allow himself to forget that he had a whole lifetime of penance ahead of him, something he needed to do for his own sake. 

“Bucky,” Sam started, but stopped when Bucky shook his head. Sam knew—they’d talked about it—and Sam understood that Bucky needed to bear the weight of it and it was his choice to do it.

“I knew Howard, and yet that didn’t keep me from cutting the lines and making that car crash,” Bucky said. “I poisoned them first. Watched him and his wife—a pretty little thing, sweet face, kind— live in their routines for two weeks. I stole into their house, walked their hallways, and crossed through their bedrooms. I noted what drinks they favored. She liked a sweet lemonade, and he went for Vat ’69. I studied what car they took most for casual night outs, and how she had to coax him into date nights. Then I killed them. Not really the kind of thing you want to share with the kid of the people you killed.”

“Hydra was the ultimate hand behind that proverbial gun.”

Bucky shrugged. “I still did it. I don’t care who holds the ultimate blame, I still have my part in it. No amount of therapy or talking is going to change that, Sam. Guilt complex comes part and parcel with me, and I’m okay with that, you know? And the guilt’s something that’s all mine, all what _I_ feel and own. Makes me even feel a little bit human.” He flinched at the sound of laughter coming from the living room.

“I can make your excuses,” Sam offered. 

There was no judgment there. Sam’s face was open, full of concern, and he never, ever made Bucky feel weak. 

It was such a fucking gift. 

“Can’t keep running and hiding from life, no matter how much I feel like it some days.” He carefully checked his shirt to make sure all the buttons were done up. “Christ, Wilson, what’s a guy got to do to get a hug around here.”

Sam didn’t say anything as his arms wrapped around Bucky. He just let Bucky tuck his head into his shoulder and hide for one more minute.

“Better go be good hosts and shit,” Bucky said.

“Eh, make Steve do it for a little longer. He’s got strong enough shoulders to hold the world up for a few seconds more.”

**********

Steve had broken at least three ribs this time and busted his ankle. Natasha had a broken cheekbone and a concussion. Barton was stuck in New York being cared for by his partner—also Hawkeye—and wheelchair bound.

Sam had offered to go with them on this mission, acting as a medic even if they wouldn’t use him to gather intel absent his flight suit, but all three had insisted they had it handled. It’d clearly exploded in their faces. 

Bucky shook his head as he listened to Sam threaten Steve with painkillers that could knock a rhino out if he didn’t relax while he walked past the couch to check on Natasha again.

“I know how to take care of myself,” she said.  
“I know,” Bucky said. “I know you even prefer to do this on your own, but you don’t have to anymore. No one’s getting in this house easy, and they’ll have to go through me, Sam, and Cyclone first.”

Natasha nodded and finally took the ice pack Bucky had in his hands. She nudged the remote with her toes.

“Your cable provider changed the station numbers. Find some trash tv about wedding dresses, okay?”

“Did you call Sharon?” he asked as he flipped to the latest marathon of _Say Yes to the Dress_.

“She’s off the grid somewhere in Europe.”

Bucky laughed. “Somewhere? Like you don’t know.”

Natasha shrugged, winced, and sat back. “She asked me not to dig into her files, so it doesn’t get flagged.”

“So you dug into her supervisor’s files?” Bucky asked.

Natasha turned her gaze to the television. “I hear Edinburgh is nice this time of year,” she said. A truly disgusted look came over her face and she frowned at the screen. “That is not a dress. That’s a mutated cotton ball with little baby cotton balls stuck to it.”

Bucky was about to lean over and look when Sam came out of the bedroom.

“He down?” 

Sam nodded. “Not happy about it, but he’s down.” He tilted his head towards the kitchen and Bucky followed.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“Nope,” Sam said as he poured them both some coffee. “I’m pissed off and tired of watching this happen to them and being sidelined because what? I’m not a millionaire with a suit? Or an alien god? I’ve got more goddamned specialty training for surviving some seriously heinous bullshit than you old army boys could ever comprehend.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Bucky said. “You know it’s not a matter of worth. You’re more valuable than your flight suit. They just have to get their shit together, which isn’t going to happen unless someone takes the leadership position.”

“And realizing it doesn’t default to the guy who is bankrolling it all,” Sam said. He ran a hand over his face. “None of them are good at taking orders.”

“Steve certainly never has been, but they’re going to have to learn to or at least compromise.”

“We’re going to have to move to New York,” Sam said. “At least part time.”

Bucky knew they would. Each mission, dragged out longer and to farther reaches of the globe and deeper down proverbial Hydra rabbit holes, had proven just how much Steve and his team needed a home base and headquarters. This house was a sanctuary; it wasn’t a place to store an arsenal or required tech or decent, sterile hospital facilities. 

“I refuse to live with Stark,” Bucky said.

Sam laughed; a genuine, soft laugh that made Bucky smile. “I still have family there,” he said. “They might’ve even rebuilt our old brownstone by now.”

“Good,” Bucky said. “Did T’Challa say when the new wings will be ready?”

“We do the final flight test next week.”

That meant they were as good as done.

“You okay with this?” Sam asked.

Bucky shouldn’t have been surprised by the question. Sam knew him well.

Bucky always knew this peace couldn’t last, that he couldn’t spend the rest of his days experimenting with culinary delights. There would always be _this_ war to fight. He had a part in it in the 40s, and during his years as just a weapon he’d help push it on. It would have to be, and _was_ , his choice to return to action. His choice, and his decision, and his motivation for doing it to protect the people he loved and for himself—to prove he was more than a gun and an arm.

He was more than just a weapon. 

“I will be,” Bucky said. He pushed off the counter and sat down across from Sam, propped his feet up in Sam’s lap, and reached across the table to take Sam’s hand. “So tell me about that possible family real estate.”


	7. Epilogue

Bucky looked at the list of names Dr. Reyes handed him. The move to New York, at least for two weeks out of each month, meant establishing roots and connections all over again. Bucky was more excited about it than filled with regret. All three of them were adamant about still making the important family functions and niece-related-events in D.C., but Bucky didn’t think he was going to find a doc as good as his current one.

“All these legit, Doc?” he asked. They both know he meant on the level and able to grasp his situation.

“Got my stamp of approval and know what Eyes Only really means,” she said. “Wilson might hate some of them, but they all know how to handle the likes of you in the ways you prefer.”

“Like an asshole?”

“Exactly,” Dr. Reyes said. She gave him a firm nod. “It’ll be good to have a back-up in New York in case I’m unavailable by phone.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “Still can’t believe we’re going to move there—at least part time. It’s good though; I feel like it’s good. Steve’s from there, I was too once, and Sam still has family in Harlem. We’ll still be here some weeks. Sam and I are both pretty big on that, Steve too, but he does have some unique job demands. It’s just easier this way.”

Dr. Reyes nodded.

“Granted, Steve’s still wringing his hands over it, but guilt is a thing we’re all good at in this relationship. It’s our choice besides. We stand with Steve, of course. We still got our own lives to live and people to handle.”

“And your own objectives and missions.”

Bucky knew that, and knew Doc wanted him to admit that his own personal goals were worthy. 

“Might not be world-saving, but yeah,” Bucky agreed. “Steve knows. He gets why we want our own space even in New York. It’s already difficult to separate work from home; we don’t want to live where we work.”

“Another valid application of not shitting where you eat,” Dr. Reyes said.

Bucky relaxed back into his chair and laughed. “I’m going to miss you, Doc.”

“Best you ever had, Barnes.” She pushed her candy dish towards him. “Now, take a peppermint for the road.”

He took a handful and ducked out as she called him a bastard. 

 

There was a new guy sitting in the waiting room when Bucky slipped out, sprawled over the chairs with his right leg bouncing up and down. Bucky was surprised; he was usually Doc’s last appointment of the week on Thursdays, since she _earned my retirement damn near ten years ago_. 

“Nice arm,” the guy said.

Bucky forgot he’d worn short sleeves today and hadn’t put his jacket back on. 

“Thanks,” he said since the guy appeared to genuinely mean it. He searched for his own compliment and settled on what had drawn his attention. “Nice…hair.”

“That sounds like a question.”

“I mean if you want to look like a cockatoo and have the attitude to pull it off, I say do it.”

“Cockatoo?”

“I watch a lot of _Animal Planet_.”

The guy’s smile twisted his lips, and his laugh was short and harsh. “You’re kind of an asshole.” He held out his hand. “Tom Raymond. Everyone calls me Toro.”

Bucky shook his hand with the metal one, smirking when Toro jumped in surprise as the fingers gripped his wrist. “Bucky,” he said.

“Bucky?” Toro asked.

“Bucky is all you need to know,” he said. 

Toro rolled his eyes. “Your parents Howling Commandos fans or something?”

“Or something,” Bucky said. 

“I can respect that,” Toro said. He studied Bucky. “So, where’d you serve?”

Soldiers recognized soldiers. This kid was more than what he seemed. “A little bit of everywhere. You?”

Toro shrugged. “Afghanistan. Mostly Kandahar. Just moved down here after a year back. My old captain suggested Doc Reyes. She any good?”

Bucky glanced at Dr. Reyes’ door, surprised she hadn’t come out yet. “She’s only for certain people. Don’t waste her time and she won’t waste yours. She’s no bullshit.”

Toro look relieved at his words. “Thank fuck,” he said. “I was worried it was all going to be touchy-feely shit. I need to talk, but not to like with hand puppets or something.”

“Hand puppets?” Bucky asked.

Toro shuddered. “Don’t make me remember, bro. I’m still trying to bury it.” He reached into his canvas bag and ripped off a piece of paper. He scribbled something down and held it out to Bucky. “Call me and I’ll tell you about some time.”

Bucky had to shake his head in admiration at the confidence; it reminded him of days when he slicked back his hair and dressed like a gangster. “I’m kind of very attached,” he said.

“So am I,” Toro said. “Always good to make a friend though.” He shook the slip of paper in the air.

“I can get that,” Bucky said. 

Leaps of faith weren’t always watching as a man he loved more than his own life jump an impossible distance over an actual fire pit. It wasn’t just taking a hand reached out to help. It wasn’t just taking a deep breath and letting someone you tried to kill once patch you up. It wasn’t just putting yourself in an enclosed space with a person who had every right to exact revenge. 

Sometimes it was just following that first set of instincts and making a friend.

He grabbed the slip of paper. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Toro.”

“You will,” he said. 

Doc Reyes opened her door. She shook her head and pointed to the office’s exit. “Get out of here, kid. Newbie, get your ass in here. I ain’t getting any younger and I don’t want Hammond calling me in a panic if this runs over.”

Toro gave her a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky exchanged a wink with Doc Reyes and headed to the door. He twirled Toro’s number in his hand, memorized the digits, and crumpled the paper. He might call, he might not, but right now he had a dance recital to clean-up for and a date night dinner to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this fic. Thank you everyone who has supported this fic and this 'verse. I sincerely apologize for how long it took me to finish.


End file.
